Into the Bolivian Sunset
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Stefan and Michael have made a life for themselves away from the Institute, but that doesn't mean they can leave it all behind just yet.  Based on Rob Thurman's book "Chimera."
1. Chapter 1

Title: Into the Bolivian Sunset 1/15

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: So, I wrote this a long time ago based on the book Chimera by Rob Thurman. I figured since the sequel to Chimera is coming out soon, I should get this up before it's rendered totally AU. So, essentially this is a sequel to the first book. Much thanks to geminigrl11 for the beta, and remaining mistakes are because I'm a really sloppy writer and this fic is freakishly long.

Summary: Stefan and Michael have made a life for themselves away from the Institute, but that doesn't mean they can leave it all behind just yet.

-o-

Life was good.

Sure, that was over-simplifying it, but it was true. Life was _good_, and Stefan wasn't ashamed to admit it. He'd spent most of his life feeling trapped or lost, alone or guilty. His entire existence had seemed to be an odd collections of tragedies and lies, girded by violence and grief. A father in the mafia. A mother who died too young. A brother who disappeared from his life, but never his mind.

Sometimes, the first twenty-four years of Stefan's life seemed like a waste: a long, difficult prelude to the real show. That wasn't entirely true - he would never write off his brief time with Lukas as worthless - but it was still true that he'd been so tied down by family and remorse that he hadn't really let himself _live_.

Until Michael.

His Misha.

A part of Stefan had died when Lukas had died, lost on the beach of their childhood. But when Michael came into his life, he might as well been reborn. The world was new again. It was alive with possibilities. He and Michael, not quite invincible, but pretty damn close, up against the world.

That was how living felt to him now. Invigorating, tantalizing. The world was _his _again.

So, hell, yeah, life was good.

He had a job - and even if bartending wasn't a prestigious occupation, and it didn't exactly pay a lot, but didn't involve beating people senseless, which was a huge plus in Stefan's book.

He had a nice place to life. A simple, two-bedroom apartment. In Bolivia, no less. _Bolivia_. Far away from the mafia, far away from crime families, far away from Stefan's past and Michael's nightmares. The land of Butch and Sundance. True, that dynamic duo haad never actually made it there, but that just made his success with Misha even more sweet.

Their digs weren't in the nicest part of town, but good enough. With Anatoly's good graces, Stefan could have afforded more, but he didn't want more. He didn't want anything except Michael.

And Michael, he had.

And did he mention that life was freakin' good these days?

This year. It had been a year since he'd broken Michael out of the Institute. The journey had started tumultuously enough, with crazed doctors trying to hunt them down and kill them at every turn. And it had nearly all fallen apart back on the beach, back when Michael got the bright idea to embrace the self-sacrificial love of brotherhood at exactly the wrong time.

But they survived, and even if Stefan's leg still ached when it rained, Michael was no worse for wear. That was all Stefan could ever want.

Of course, his unsinkable mood might also be from the fact that tormenting Michael now made him more giddy than usual.

It perhaps didn't make him brother of the year, but the kid sometimes made such an easy mark.

"But I don't understand," Michael said, his voice almost a whine. He was slunk low on the couch, legs on the coffee table and arms tight across his chest.

"That's because you're the younger brother," Stefan told him with a smirk. He was sprawled out on a nearby chair, arms resting behind his head. "No matter how much they suped you up, you're still going to be genetically inferior to me."

The insult was only half of Michael's problem, and clearly not the most important half to him. His face was drawn in a petulant scowl now. "You said you _wanted_ me to have a girlfriend."

Saying something and meaning it were entirely different things. Stefan encouraged Michael's bizarre and sometimes awkward attempts at individuality whenever he could. He let the kid dress like a freak and socialize with just about whoever he saw fit. And he was always ready to prod the kid into talking with a cute girl.

Still. Stefan scoffed. "In _theory_, I think it's good for you."

Michael rolled his eyes and huffed. "At this rate, it'll only ever be _theory_."

Stefan made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat. "You're more than welcome to have a girlfriend," he said easily. "But all dates must be in this apartment - with your bedroom door open."

Michael's look was indignant. "That's not a date, that's having a babysitter."

With a shrug, Stefan amended his restrictions. "You're also welcome to take her to the bar while I'm on the clock."

"Gee, that's kind of you," Michael said glumly.

Spoken like a true teenager. And to think Stefan had almost missed out on this entirely. The trade off for giving up his entire life to serve the kid was worth it when he reaped so much entertainment from watching the kid experiment, succeed, and occasionally flounder.

And the kid did flounder with girls. They were all attracted to him, and Michael liked girls a lot. But his lack of interpersonal skills was never more apparent then when he was trying to take things from casual and friendly to something more.

In truth, Stefan would let Michael date if he thought the kid was ready. Sometimes he doubted if Michael was actually ready to get out of bed and join the normal world, given some of the outfits and hairdos he chose. Michael liked freedom - in theory. Sometimes the practical application scared the crap out of him, though, even if he didn't want to admit it.

So Stefan's cajoling, authoritative big brother act really was mostly an act. Though he did fear for the kid's safety if some girl _did _get her hooks in him. Michael might have faced down trained killers, but he was no match for the prowess of a woman who knew what she wanted.

"What brings this on anyway?" Stefan asked. He waggled an eyebrow suggestively. "Got a girl in mind suddenly? The cute one from your biology class?"

Michael made a face. "Elena has a boyfriend," he said.

"Bummer," Stefan said. "So is it the short one you tutored in French?"

"Short girls make me nervous," Michael admitted.

Stefan almost choked on a laugh.

"What?" Michael said defensively. "I'm a trained assassin. They seem delicate. Sort of like children or infants. And the thought of kissing them makes me feel different inside - restless and anxious."

It took more self-control than Stefan thought he had not to laugh at that. "Dude, you're not scared of her," he said. "You _like_ her."

Michael's face went blank with surprise. Then he cocked his head thoughtfully. "That's what that means?"

It was Stefan's turn to roll his eyes. "You've got a thing for Cristina."

"But she's not as flirtatious as Elena," Michael said.

"And she probably doesn't sleep around as much either," Stefan added in.

Michael's mouth dropped open at that, then closed as a perplexed look came over his face. "I hadn't considered that."

"So you _were_ thinking about Elena," Stefan concluded.

"No, I was thinking about Raquel, from the bar."

Stefan's eyes bugged at that. "Raquel?"

Michael nodded.

"Seriously?"

"Why not?"

Stefan gave him a disbelieving look. Not that he didn't understand the inherent attraction, because how could he not? Long brown hair, legs that never stopped, and a face perfect enough for a billboard was enough to give any guy a wet dream.

Problem was, Raquel knew it, too. And used it. To get tips, to get dates, to get an easy lay in the back room whenever she had the chance. For Michael be drawn to her - well, it was like a guppy having a fixation with a piranha. Michael might be able to reel Raquel in, but only to be devoured before he even knew what hit him. "She's a few years older than I am, and she's got the moves to prove it," Stefan said. "She'd eat you alive, buddy."

Michael looked vaguely crestfallen. The poor kid seemed to regard women as goddesses, incapable of deceit or maliciousness. The prettier they were, the more pure he seemed intent on believing them to be.

Sitting up, Stefan grinned. "Cristina is definitely a better place to start."

Brightening, Michael looked up at him again. "So I can date her?"

It had been a set up. The little craphead had set him up - brilliantly. Played up his insecurities, made a pitch for a girl he'd never get, and then like a dumb ass, Stefan had bolstered him with a sweet consolation prize.

He sighed crossly. "Maybe," he consented. "But you're going to have to work on making yourself more presentable if you're going to stand a chance."

Michael's brow furrowed and he looked at his shirt. "What's wrong with the way I look?"

"Well," Stefan said as a matter of fact. "To start with, your shirt looks like it belongs in a carnival. Seriously. I like the Beatles as much as the next guy, but their choice of album art is a bit too psychedelic to be stylish these days."

Michael looked at his shirt, a large reproduction of the _Revolver_ album cover.

"Second, your hair, man. What are you doing with your hair?"

Michael lifted a hand to his blonde head, feeling it cautiously. The kid went through various styles, some of which required copious amounts of hair product and various colors of dye. For a while, he'd let it go brown to help avoid detection while crossing borders, but after a few months in Bolivia, he'd gone back to blonde, though he added highlights from time to time. He tried parting it, gelling it, spraying it. Sometimes it had volume, sometimes it was straight. Once, he'd even tried a mohawk until Stefan had refused to be seen in public with him.

"I like my hair," he said defensively.

With a derisive snort, Stefan got to his feet. "I like your hair, too, so I don't know why you insist on torturing it."

"I'm trying to find a style I like," Michael protested.

"Well, you've done a bang up job on finding a bunch that really don't work."

At that, Michael's face darkened. "And you think that I should just let it fall where it wants to, like yours?"

Stefan shrugged. "Who here has had a girlfriend before?"

Michael glared, but had no counter argument.

"Besides," Stefan said, nudging Michael forcibly off the couch. "Your roots are starting to show and the girls are going to find that a total turn off. We need to hit the store and pick up some stuff anyway, and we can work on that disaster you call hair."

Michael scowled but obeyed. Stefan would never have pushed the blonde hair back on the kid, not knowing what he knew now, but Michael had gravitated back to it almost naturally. Part of it was habit, but the other part was a comfort neither of them would acknowledge but both clung to. It was a solidifying choice that they both embraced - to remember how things were. It made them look like the family from the pictures, the one that Stefan had fought so hard to find again and the one that Michael had finally surrendered to.

The fact that it wasn't entirely true was just a detail Stefan would keep to himself.

Unspoken significance aside, it just wasn't Michael's style to do anything graciously or without commentary. If there was a nit to pick, Michael was all over it, usually with a flair of teenage sulking, just for good measure. "Fine," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest, even as he followed Stefan toward the toward. "For the girls."

Stefan just rolled his eyes, snagging his keys off the table. "Right, Romeo," he said, shoving them into his pocket along with his phone. "For the girls."

-o-

Michael may have submitted to the dyeing with scowls and pouts, but he certainly reaped the benefits like it was his idea. That was just the way Michael was; he had a funny habit of taking anything in his life, be it good or bad, and using it to make things better. Sometimes his efforts were sincerely altruistic - maybe stopping a mugger with a quick cut of blood to the brain - but sometimes, Michael was all teenager.

And the blonde hair, while it made him match the pictures of Lukas in the house, also helped him attract the girls. Like any true teenager, Michael was thinking with his hormones.

Of course, the kid didn't realize that he really didn't have to try quite so hard. A face like that, a smile that lit up a room - he had half the girls in Bolivia falling all over themselves to just get a chance to talk to him.

And Michael ate it up. If Stefan had ever been worried about how Michael would adapt to their new life in the Southern Hemisphere, it was clearly misplaced. Michael was flourishing. He devoured everything in front of him - food, information, people. Michael read, he went out, he watched movies; in short, Michael _lived_. Lived with a voracity that Stefan could have never have imagined.

It was funny. In the ten years that Stefan had been searching, he'd been so preoccupied with finding Lukas, that he'd never really given much thought to the aftermath. The happy reunion had been all he had in mind, finally bringing his brother back home, making amends for the mistakes he'd made the night Lukas had vanished.

The homecoming hadn't been everything Stefan had planned, of course, considering that Michael wasn't actually his brother. But, by the time Stefan figured that out, it seemed like sort of a moot point. He was all in, for better and for worse, and Stefan had been faced with the reality that finding his brother wasn't the important thing. It was building a life with him that mattered, made him more complete than anything Stefan had ever known.

And it was good. Hell, it was _great_. Just him and Michael, an apartment in La Paz. Stefan had taken a job as a barkeeper, something easy and nondescript that gave him a little extra money so no one would start asking questions about how they afforded their place. It gave Stefan something to do, some order in his life, and it had extended his meager Spanish skills from pathetic to basic.

He'd considered sending Michael to one of the private high schools in the area, and although he told Michael that it was too much of a risk, he really just didn't think he could stand not being around the kid for eight hours stretches at a time. He'd offered to let Michael get a job, maybe as a waiter or in a store, but Michael had balked at not having any chances to learn.

In the end, they'd compromised, and Michael had enrolled as a freshmen at one of the local colleges. He signed up for classes from advanced calculus to ethics and aced them all. College was really the perfect fit, where Michael could not only learn what textbooks had to offer but also all the things that his Institute education had left out in terms of interpersonal relationships and being human.

Overall, it was working. They had an occasional bump or two - sometimes Michael would wake up from a nightmare he didn't want to talk about; other times, Stefan would get a vague sense of dread from a suspicious figure in the bar. But they passed, and life went on as they grew more comfortable in their roles.

Just like brothers, they laughed, they fought, they _were_. Michael never referred to himself as Lukas, but sometimes he was drawn to family photos. He never called Anatoly his father, not even in reference, but he kept the picture of Stefan and Lukas in his room, amongst his other items.

His many other items. Turned out, Michael was a pack rat. Psychologically, Stefan could understand that. At the Institute, he hadn't had possessions of his own. He hadn't had a _life_ of his own. So Stefan was all for Michael's independence and sense of self.

Of course, it would have been easier to accept if it wasn't so ridiculous.

The Albert Einstein t-shirt back in the Connecticut mall had only been the tip of the iceberg. Michael had a penchant for all things tacky and he invested heavily in paraphernalia of the most absurd. Science posters with the periodic table, prints of artwork by Salvador Dali with drooping clocks and all, photographs of Rome, Paris, and inexplicably, the world's largest ball of twine. He hung the posters every which way, in an order Stefan could quite place. Some were layered, corners overlapping, and to top the visual menagerie off, Michael had tacked a poster of Kermit the Frog over his bed.

Stefan thought it was damn creepy; Michael said it helped him have good dreams.

And then there was the other stuff. Rocks from walks they went on, seashells from the beach house. Glass knickknacks from the local market and an ever-growing postcard collection from any place they even passed. His book collection included everything from technical texts to theoretical treatises to interpretative poetry. And his movies were even more varied, from a worn out copy of _Casablanca_ to a favored DVD of _Die Hard _and even a copy of _101 Dalmations_. Dubbed in Spanish, no less.

Michael was making his mark on the world, proving he existed, and if anyone ever doubted he had a life of his own, he would gladly show them his room and prove them irrevocably otherwise.

Stefan's life was far less colorful, but it was just as much his. Given his own upbringing, Stefan didn't have the same penchant for unusual like Michael did. Stefan still preferred to blend in to the crowd. Fortunately, cheap black clothing was as easy to find in La Paz as it was in Florida, so he was set. He kept his hair long, but took measures to keep his scar hidden - just in case. The last thing he needed was someone to ID him from the scar alone, and though the bar where he worked as a bit off the beaten path, it still sheltered its share of wayfarers.

Minimal precautions were in order. Michael's blonde hair, his plain brown contacts, Stefan's covered scar - small steps to ensure that their new life remained anonymous.

Rather, that their small life remained anonymous to the wrong people. Anonymity was an illusion in their current situation, since everyone in the neighborhood knew them, no doubt thanks to Michael's incessantly curious nature.

While that had its annoyances, Stefan had to admit, it also had its perks. It was nice going to work and having people know his name and greet him with a smile. The fact that they weren't all killers and thieves was a fringe benefit.

It also gave him a chance to keep an eye on Michael, which even if it didn't pay, was still his number one job. And Michael certainly gave him a run for his money. Talking to everyone, hitting on every girl. It had taken some arm wringing to convince the kid to keep his antics confined to the bar most of the time, and even then, it was sometimes hard to keep track of the kid.

This was another reason the blonde hair was helpful. Not only was it a beacon for every eligible girl within one hundred yards, it was also pretty easy to spot the kid as he weaved amongst the crowd. Stefan watched him more than he would ever admit, seeing how the kid experimented with new food dishes, how he tried new pickup lines, even how he was capable of reading when the place was alive with talking.

"Stefan, que haces?"

Stefan flinched at the voice, breaking from his reverie. The Spanish words were some of the few he actually knew without having to think about them. Probably because he was asked that quite often.

He had been watching as Michael cozied up to a pair of sisters who lived down the street. Carmen and Marta were both students with Michael at school and they seemed to perpetually be having trouble with homework in a way that only Michael could fix.

While his job afforded Stefan ample opportunity to watch as Michael relish such focused attention, it was not always easy to get away with. His boss, Jorge, was middle aged and mostly inept. His management skills were lacking and his hiring process was hit and miss, which was how Stefan had secured a job without too many checks on his forged background. Because of that, Stefan was indebted to Jorge, even if the man did make him wonder how the bar turned any profit at all.

Employees were often late and sometimes didn't show up at all. Everyone from the busboy to the cook was inclined to offer free rounds far too quickly, and the stock of peanuts was so old that Stefan refused to eat them, even when he was starving. Jorge paid his employees too much, offered too much time off, and never managed to stock the right drinks in the bar. The glasses were mismatched and cheap and the food was horrible.

Yet, the locals still came back and Stefan still got paid, even though Jorge was continually yelling at him to pay attention.

"I pay you to work, not watch," Jorge said with exasperation. He ran a hand through his hair, popping an antacid. The small man spoke passable English, still better than Stefan's makeshift attempts at Spanish. "I should fire you, yes?"

It was a common threat, made at least three times each shift.

Stefan grinned disarmingly. He no longer employed physical intimidation as he primary means of getting out of things, and he'd come to find that a little goodnatured banter could go a long way. "It's appealing, I'm sure," Stefan agreed cordially. "But then who would serve your drinks?"

"Who is serving them now?" Jorge asked pointedly. "People, lined up at the bar, and you, staring. Always with the staring. You Americans are very funny that way. Stare, stare, stare."

"You like Americans," Stefan pointed out helpfully.

"Tourists who pay double what they should and three times too much because they do not understand the exchange rate," Jorge groused. "You and your brother, I have no use for."

"Now come on," Stefan protested. "Michael's your best customer."

Jorge pointed wildly to Michael's table, where Marta and Carmen were bowing low over their textbooks. To Michael's credit, he was looking at the words and conveniently avoiding the nice view he should have had down the front of their shirts. Stefan wouldn't have noticed himself were the pair not being quite so flagrant in trying to help Michael catch their drift.

Sometimes Stefan wondered what was worse to have after Michael: the Institute or carnivorous Bolivians with a taste for young blondes.

"Yes, here all the time, but I never see him pay," Jorge said.

That was true. Employees got free food, and were given discretion in how to use it. Stefan was proud to say he barely stomached any of the food out of Jorge's not so fine establishment. Michael's less discerning tongue, however, devoured more than Stefan's share.

"But look at the crowd he attracts," Stefan said, nodding to the girls.

"I am lucky I hardly break even," Jorge said with a curt shake of his head. "So you, work. Or I cut off little brother, yes?"

"On it, boss," Stefan said with a smirk.

Jorge scowled, downing another antacid just for the heck of it. He muttered a string of Spanish, finishing his tirade with a few invectives that even Stefan recognized across the language barrier.

With that, Stefan turned his attention back to his work. He kept an eye on Michael while he mixed the drinks, but allowed himself to make small talk with the regulars. He was gathering a set of drinks for a trio of girls when a figure caught his attention.

Large and withdrawn, the bulking figure was seated at a table at the far end of the room. The light above his table was flickering, creating a barely discernible hazy glow.

They served all kinds at the bar - it was by no means a highbrow kind of place - and Stefan had detected his share of criminals and other unsavory characters during his time there.

But there was something about this one. Something in his hunched posture. Something in the way the drink at his table was untouched, collecting condensation under the tepid swirl of the ceiling fans.

He was donning a trench coat, gray and nondescript, and the man's thick dark hair hung low over his eyes.

But not so low that Stefan couldn't see where he was looking. No, that much was pretty clear. He was looking right at Michael.

It took Stefan's self-control not to freeze up, mixing two margaritas and a daiquiri, but as he served them, he kept his gaze careful. The man didn't flinch, didn't move, except when Michael stood up to feed money into the jukebox, the dark eyes followed his every move.

Coincidence - possibly. Hell, it could just be a pervert who was checking out some blonde eye candy. Michael attracted all sorts, much to Stefan's chagrin, even if the kid hardly seemed aware of half of it.

But then again, it could be something else. It could be something a whole lot worse.

Because sometimes this life made him soft. The surreal happiness, the peaceful day to day nature - Stefan needed to remind himself that a year ago, he'd been in the mafia. Michael had been in the Institute. This wasn't some fairy tale with a happily ever after tacked on at the end - this was two brothers on the run, probably for the rest of their lives. The illusion of safety Stefan worked to create for Michael was just that - an illusion. A comfort for Michael, but a risk for Stefan.

Whether it was Stefan's mob ties, his father's backlog of personal grudges, or the people from what was left of the Institute - they weren't completely safe.

And the guy in the trench coat? Could fit the bill for any one of them. Stefan couldn't be sure. What he could be sure of was that if the son of a bitch didn't stop staring at his brother, he was going to beat the hell out of him.

Michael had settled back in his seat, laughing as Marta fawned over him. Carmen was pointing to something in the book, looking at him earnestly, and Trench Coat's gaze followed every movement. Bobbed up and down as Michael tried to flip through the textbook to find the right page, went back and forth as Michael looked from one girl to the other, one to the other.

Heart throbbing, eyes narrowed, Stefan was not going to let this go on. Jorge would throw a fit, but Stefan could be fired for all he cared - he was not going to tolerate anyone checking out his brother like that. He had to eliminate the risk before it got any worse.

But before he could move, the figure stood. In the light, the man had a benign face, clean shaven and flabby. His pale blue eyes were decidedly American and his thick mane of hair had a growing bald spot on the top. Shuffling in his back pocket, the man produced a wallet, slapping down a few bills in a generous tip before he headed toward the door.

The man's gaze wandered the bar, flitting past Michael and locking with Stefan's. The man smiled, nodded his thanks, and disappeared out the door.

"Stefan!" Jorge called angrily. "Stefan, que haces!"

Numbly, Stefan got back to work, eyes still on Michael as he finished out his shift.

-o-

The rest of the night ended without incident. Marta and Carmen went home around eleven, and normally Stefan would have sent Michael along behind them (after giving the girls plenty of time to get home - Stefan was not quite ready to deal with the notion of his brother getting laid), but instead he had Michael stick around.

The kid had been curious at that, but happy to oblige. Michael was always looking for new things to do, and since Stefan usually tried to enforce a curfew of around eleven most nights, it was clear the kid was eager to see what happened after hours.

Of course, that kind of thing was only exciting in theory, and as the crowd got drunker, Michael pulled out a book, reading in the din until he got drowsy. Then, under Stefan's watchful eye, the younger boy drifted to sleep just after one, his head propped against the wall while the crowd thinned out for closing time.

When Stefan was done with his work for the night, he checked out with Jorge before hanging up his apron. Checking for his wallet and his phone in his back pocket, Stefan ran a hand through his hair before making his way back to Michael.

Michael was the only one left in the room. The main lights were off, the canned lights over the bar the only ones still on. There were still people on the streets - Stefan could hear a chorus of drunken singing somewhere not too far - but it was way past time for Michael to be home. Chimera or not, Michael was still a teenage boy who needed to sleep.

Moving deftly to Michael's table, he put the last of Michael's books in his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. Michael snuffled, eyes fluttering. "Stefan?" he asked groggily.

Stefan snorted. Michael had a surreal ability to sleep anywhere and under any conditions. The fact that he was truly asleep through the closing time ritual was a testament to that. "Yeah, Misha," he said, bending over to pull Michael up by the arm.

Michael allowed himself to be maneuvered to his feet, didn't even protest when Stefan slipped one of shoulders under Michael's arm, anchoring the younger boy to his side. Instead, he looked at Stefan through half-lidded eyes, smiling. "I was having a good dream," he murmured.

"Let me guess, Carmen and Marta?" Stefan asked, navigating Michael away from the table.

Michael followed his lead instinctively, feet moving even as his voice drifted on dreamily. "No, not them," he said.

"Kermit?" Stefan asked, opening the front door and taking Michael through.

Michael sighed a little in the fresh nighttime air. His eyes slipped closed again and he shook his head. "The one about the horses," he said. "You and Harry. I was on Annie. Going bareback on the beach."

Stefan's chest tightened. That was one of the more inexplicable things. Michael had embraced Stefan's story, _believed_ he was Lukas, contrary to all the overwhelming evidence. But even when the rest of the coincidences could be explained away, Michael's powerful dreams about the horses sometimes made Stefan forget that it was in fact a deception.

"Am I letting you win again?" Stefan prodded, carefully moving them down the curb and into the street.

Michael grunted. "I always win," he replied airily. "You don't need to let me."

On the other side of the street, Stefan helped Michael step up onto the sidewalk again. "That's why it's a dream, Misha," he joked. "No semblance of reality there."

Michael just smiled, his head lolling a bit against Stefan's shoulder, blonde hair splayed freely in the streetlights. "I like this dream," he said, his voice lilting on the air. "Feels happy. Feels safe."

Stefan swallowed hard, wishing more than anything he could make that dream come true. Not the horses, really, but that feeling. The way Michael looked when all his defenses were down. Half asleep on Stefan's shoulder, Michael was no more than a boy, young and eager and trusting. Stefan desperately wished that they lived in a world where that was all Michael ever had to be.

But that wasn't their world.

Stefan restrained a shudder, thinking back to the man in the bar. It was probably nothing - just Stefan's overzealous sense of protection working over time - but the threat that had him so on edge was still real.

It was time to face those threats, time to eliminate them once and for all. As long as the Institute was still out there, as long as Stefan was still on a hit list back in Florida, they would never be safe.

Michael deserved safe. He deserved a whole lot more than that, but it was a good place to start.

Carefully, Stefan led them inside. Their apartment was on the third floor, a quaint two bedroom that met their needs. Fortunately it had a working elevator, and Michael was quiet as Stefan got him the rest of the way upstairs.

Inside the apartment, Stefan locked the door behind him before leading Michael to his bedroom. The kid followed, clumsy legs not quite hitting Stefan's stride, and when Stefan eased him down onto the unmade bed, the younger boy curled up on his side and went still, breath evening out in sleep.

With a sigh, Stefan pulled off Michael's shoes, disentangling the sheet before draping it over the sleeping form. The window was open and let in light breeze, ruffling Michael's hair in the moonlight.

This was how it was supposed to be. This was what Stefan had to provide for Michael. Starting tomorrow, it was time to meet their demons head on and finally put the past to rest, once and for all.

-o-

Of course, getting rid of demons was a little easier said than done. Hell, even trying to clean skeletons out of the closet was messy and not without its risks. Stefan had known it would be hard, but in the stark morning sunlight, he was remembering why he'd put this off so long to begin with.

True to form, Michael was still crashed when Stefan woke up. Putting on some coffee, Stefan scrounged together some fruit and cereal for his breakfast, sitting down miserably at the table while his coffee finished. The bananas were over-ripe and the cereal was stale and it was just too sunny this morning.

How the hell was it supposed to be a cheerful day when Stefan was being faced head on with the fact that he was completely screwed?

He poured himself a cup of coffee before the pot was finished brewing, sipping the bitter substance disdainfully. He was going to need a whole lot more than caffeine to figure a way out of this mess.

To the point, he didn't even know where to start. As far as he could tell, they had two main problems to deal with: Stefan's former coworkers and the new Institute.

It was hard to gauge which organization was better connected and harder to penetrate. They both contained certain degrees of illegality and brutality, and neither was what Stefan might consider a soft target. Going after his former friends might actually be a bit easier if he could get a word in edgewise - his father might still have some ties that could help him mend the fences and go on his merry way.

Of course, they also might just kill him the moment they saw him, which would pretty much screw over the whole safety goal.

Worse than that, Stefan had no way to keep tabs on what they were doing. Anatoly might have been able to provide some intel, but getting in touch with him was easier said than done. Saul was good at digging things up, but even Saul avoided crossing wires with the mafia. They worked similar turf. Making those kinds of enemies wouldn't do Saul any good.

They did, however, have information on the Institute. Saul had found evidence of a makeshift compound in Texas a few months after he and Michael had moved to Bolivia. It had gone off the map, though, disappearing without a trace, until Saul managed to dig up signs that it was following most businesses in American economy and outsourcing.

Over the last few months, Saul had picked up intel that the Institute was still on the move, moving throughout the provinces of Mexico and several locations in Central America. Stefan could only theorize as to why they were moving around so much, which was a strike against going after the Institute first. It was impossible to say what the Institute's main goal was at the moment - and what it was they were exactly trying to do. In this regard, the mafia would always be an easier target. Stefan knew how their minds worked - money and revenge, and it didn't get much more complicated than that.

Still. Hitting back at Fyodor would raise bells and whistles once they crossed the border back into the States. An operation off American soil was their best bet to stay off the radar for longer.

Besides, Stefan thought, taking a sip of coffee, he still wanted to kill every one of those sons of bitches for what they'd done to Michael. And if they could save the other kids...

Sometimes it wasn't what was easiest or convenient. Sometimes it was a matter of priorities.

The decision was made. And he wasn't even done with his first cup of coffee. In all, Stefan was actually impressed with himself.

There was a groan and the sound of feet dragging on the floor. Michael was slinking into the kitchen. His clothes were still on from the night before, shirt untucked and rumpled. The freshly dye hair was a mess on top of his head, sticking out in some interesting directions. With a grunt, Michael scratched his stomach and sat down hard in the chair across from Stefan.

Nose wrinkled, he reached out, swiping the box of cereal. He opened it, peaked inside and made a face. "What happened to the other box?"

"You mean the box of sugar-loaded flakes?" Stefan asked with a raised eyebrow. "You finished them yesterday as an afternoon snack."

Michael scowled but didn't deny. He took a handful of the less sugary cereal and tossed it in his mouth. Between chews he asked, "Are you making anything for breakfast?"

Stefan scoffed. "I'm your brother, not your maid," he said. "Get up and find your own food."

Michael looked up at him, a plaintive plea on his face. "I thought you were supposed to take care of me. My long lost big brother. Think of all the years we weren't together. All the breakfasts you _would _have made me if I had not been trapped in an assassin boarding school."

The kid knew no mercy. And he would always win the who-had-it-worse game.

Aware he was beat, Stefan pushed away from the table with a frown. "Oh, shut up," he grumbled. Going to the stove, he pulled out a pan, clanking it on the burner. "You get eggs - scrambled. You want something extra fancy, you're on your own."

Michael's face brightened. "Four?"

Stefan made a face, pulling out the egg carton from the fridge. "At the rate you eat, you should be a five hundred pound hippo."

Michael blinked hopefully. "Maybe chimeras have increased metabolisms. It's probably not my fault."

Stefan smeared butter on the bottom of the pan, lighting the flame. He snorted. "Someday that excuse is going to get old."

Michael beamed a little. The little craphead was enjoying himself. "Perhaps," he said triumphantly. "But not today."

-o-

Michael may have had the morning victory, but it was the next battle that Stefan was really preparing to win. Giving in regarding making breakfast for the bottomless pit was a small sacrifice for the feat Stefan was hoping to achieve.

In the clarity of daylight, the task seemed all the more pressing.

And all the more daunting.

Getting Michael out the first time had been more luck than Stefan wanted to admit. And the scale of what Stefan hoped to accomplish was far larger than before - and the risks a lot more serious. Stefan was prepared to die for his brother - hands down, no questions about that one - but the idea of leaving him behind and vulnerable? Or worse, getting the kid hurt or killed in the process?

Most of all, he didn't really want to bring up the topic with Michael. The kid talked about the Institute and they even talked about a plan to go back after the other kids. But the truth of it was that Michael was always good to go - in theory.

Michael's world, no matter how confident he appeared, was still a fragile thing. It was funny to Stefan that Michael had been surprised by Stefan's mere human fragility. Because when Stefan looked at Michael, the emotional fragility of a boy who had spent his life in a cage was the scariest thing he'd ever had to deal with.

The Russian mob, crime lords, killing, blood, and guns - not a problem. Stefan could stomach it and still sleep at night.

But thinking about how much Michael had blossomed and how close they'd both come to never seeing it at all - was almost more than he could handle.

Michael would never admit to it, at least not in so many words, but Stefan knew it was true.

Stefan never wanted to do anything to cause Michael anxiety - he _didn't _- but keeping Michael safe was paramount. It was possible that Stefan's nerves were just getting the better of him, but the weird guy in the trench coat had been a wake up call. Bolivia was a dream come true, but it wasn't Heaven. Worse, it could be lost just as easily as a dream, slip away from them before Stefan even had a chance to stop it.

Except Stefan _did _have a chance to stop it. The trick was keeping the dream alive for Michael while saving it all the same.

The trick was all in the approach.

Michael was mostly a logical creature. At least, that was what the kid wanted people to think. His mind was always looking for reasons and justifications - it was just that sometimes he was rather creative when picking and choosing which ones to use to support his train of thought. Still, the kid could and would see reason, especially if it seemed like it had been his idea all along.

So Stefan had to pick the right moment. Work Michael into the conversation before he even realized where they were going with it. Preferably a time when Michael was content and distracted.

Such as when he was playing with Zilla, the pet from hell.

The god-forsaken rat had made the trip with them to Bolivia, and Michael spent more time cleaning the little devil's cage than he did tidying his own room. They had a disturbingly symbiotic relationship; Zilla would prance and fawn all over Michael, easing around his shoulders and his head, settling on his back when the kid was sprawled out on his stomach reading a book. In return for the warm resting place, Zilla took to collecting Michael's trash, raiding pieces into a dark cave under Michael's bed.

If they ever got evicted, Stefan would know why.

Still, the damn rat made Michael almost absurdly happy, and Stefan wasn't sure who got more contentment out of the belly stroking - the ferret or Michael. They both practically purred like damn kittens.

So when Michael curled up on the couch, Godzilla scampering to and fro up and down his chest, it seemed like as good of time as any to try to broach the topic.

"Are you sure that thing's safe?" Stefan asked, sitting down in a chair. He gave Michael a skeptical look.

Michael frowned at Stefan, hand automatically rubbing Zilla's furry little head. "I take him to the vet and feed him only the best food," he said. "He gets far less exposure to outside elements than you do, so I figure it's more likely for you to be carrying some unwelcome disease or parasite rather than he is."

Insults were the perfect lead off in any conversation with Michael. The kid seemed to pride himself on being able to defuse any criticism, no matter how petty or minor. Giving Michael a sense of security was exactly what Stefan was going for, even if the kid did have an annoyingly self-righteous air about the entire thing.

Stefan snorted. "Maybe the little rat gets it from the scum that grows under your bed."

Michael shrugged at that. "Many scientists believe that one of the greatest threats to human health is an obsession with cleanliness. If we eradicate bacteria too freely, we're more likely to create a resistant strain that could cripple human medicine."

"Ah, so you're doing us all a favor."

Michael smiled smugly. "I do what I can."

"If only Jericho had known he wasn't creating a race of killers, but the mightiest humanitarians on the planet," Stefan quipped.

Michael didn't flinch at the name. There was a time when he would have. But they had buried Jericho - literally and figuratively - and Michael was not one to cling to irrational fears. "You have no idea," he said. "All the power of a chimera, used for the greater good-" He shrugged, a sly twinkle in his eye. "You'd think you'd be more grateful."

"Hey, my life is your life," Stefan said, holding his hands up. "But I'm still not bowing down to the rat, no matter how awesome you think you are."

Michael picked up Zilla, looking the thing fondly in the face. "It's okay," he assured the ferret. "He is of a lesser intelligence. It's not his fault."

"You're defending me to the ferret?" Stefan asked incredulously.

Michael laid Zilla on his chest, where it nuzzled down. "You make him anxious."

And now that was something. The furry ass thing was nervous about _him_. Never mind that Stefan was the one who had to watch where he was walking or where he threw his shoes at night in case he should hit the thing.

But his barely controlled wrath against Zilla was not the point.

The point was still the Institute.

Clearing his throat, Stefan subtly switched tactics. "So have you thought any more about it?"

Michael made a face. "Any more about you causing Zilla anxiety?"

Stefan rolled his eyes. "About the other kids in the Institute. You still want to get them out?"

At that, Michael paused, a small hitch in his usually flawless comebacks. Finally, he nodded. "It's the right thing to do," he said with careful resolution. "Did you get more intel from Saul?"

Cautiously, Stefan shrugged. "Just been reviewing what he gave us last time," he said. "I'm thinking maybe we can pull it off soon."

Michael's face was blank. "Pull it off?"

"Yeah," Stefan said. "I mean, I don't know. We've tracked their movements this far. And now they're barely a country away. If we let them move again, there's a chance we won't find them."

"But we still don't know why they're moving," Michael countered.

"Who the hell cares why if we can stop them from doing it again?"

Michael shook his head. "Understanding the enemy is the key to taking them down. We will be going in out-manned and out-gunned. We need more than the element of surprise to make sure we can pull it off without suffering casualties."

It was pretty damn impressive to hear Michael talk strategy. He sounded as versed as an old army pro. Which was also what made it so disturbing as well out of the mouth of an eighteen-year-old kid.

"That's why we have you," Stefan said readily. "Face it, Misha, you've got all the insight we'll need into how the place works."

Michael shifted, obviously uncomfortable and Stefan almost regretted his words. But Michael shook his head, face dark. "My departure undoubtedly changed their method of operation, possibly even their end goal. The fact that they are on the move suggests a massive overhaul of the authoritative structure and command protocol." He stopped, shaking his head soberly. "I don't know as much as you think I do. Not anymore."

There was some truth to it; and there was some fear. Stefan had bowed to that before, but the risk of not taking action was too prominent in his mind. "We can't risk losing them again, Misha," he said quietly.

Michael's gaze skittered away. Wordlessly, he sat up, picking up Zilla and putting the ferret on the cushion next to him. "I know," he said. "We just...need a good plan. A flawless plan."

"I'm working on it," Stefan said. Then he hesitated, hedging his bets. "But I'm going to need help."

Michael nodded, and he sighed a little, almost in resignation. "We'll need to look again at the schematics. See if we can get an infrared scan to see where the majority of security is located and where the other kids are probably housed."

That was the insight Stefan needed - and he felt himself dare to hope that they might pull this off. "I'll ask Saul about it," he said. "I'm also going to see if we can put together a team-"

But Michael was shaking his head. "A team?"

"Yeah," Stefan said. "I mean, I plan on having us do most of the hard work, but we're not exactly above the law just yet. We can't stick around to clean up the mess without risking ourselves."

Michael's eyes were blazing, face set. "But we can't just risk other people in this. The idea is to _save _lives, not put more on the line. I can't do that. I _won't_."

"Misha," Stefan said, his voice softer. "It's going to be minimal risk. Babysitters."

Michael shook his head fiercely. "You don't understand what you're up against. They won't _surrender _neatly for you. They won't just _sit_ there while we deal with them - the guards _or _the children."

"Well, we can't clean it up all on our own," Stefan snapped back.

Michael threw up his arms in melodramatic fashion. "Great, so why don't you just alert all the authorities when we go in? Call the press for that matter, let them get some good shots before it all goes to hell."

It was sarcasm, and pretty good sarcasm at that. Michael was picking up that kind of thing fast, thanks mostly to Stefan's apt tutelage. But there was something to that, something they hadn't considered...

"You're considering it," Michael said incredulously. "You're _considering it_."

"Think about it," Stefan said, the wheels turning in his head. "It's kind of ingenious."

"That's because I thought of it," Michael shot back, conveniently overlooking the part where he thought it was a horrible idea.

"Exactly, so how could we go wrong?" Stefan pushed, capitalizing on Michael's egotistical blunder.

Though he'd walked right into the trap, Michael still rolled his eyes. "These people aren't your common criminals," he reminded Stefan, as if he needed the history lesson. "They aren't even your Russian mafia. They function with a whole different set of rules. And we're talking about rescuing a group of children who may have no interest in being rescued."

The dire forecast was more than a bit of a downer. Stefan liked to keep it realistic when planning such things, but a shred of optimism was pretty important to actually pulling it off. "Geez, kid, then what's the point of going at all?"

Michael's face was pinched, his brow set darkly. "It's the right thing to do," he replied simply. He sighed. "I just...I've seen what I can do to others. I know what they tried to program me to do. I can't live up to that - not on any level. If innocent people get hurt because of me..."

He didn't finish his statement. He didn't have to.

That much made sense. Michael's sense of self-preservation wasn't really that strong; it was his inherent sense of justice that was overly equipped. He spared no mercy for bad people, but for those who were good and innocent, the kid was a total pushover. It was no wonder he wanted to help the other children back at the Institute, even if they might not know they need help. And it also wasn't much of a stretch to think Michael would want to risk as few people as possible in the pursuit. Throwing himself into the fray, probably made sense in the kid's warped logic. Granted, he had a bit of a tactical advantage, but there were still times when Michael's plaintive sense of invincibility worried him.

It was hard to be mad at the kid for that kind of thinking, even if it did make Stefan want to slap him senseless. All the hard work Stefan put into keeping the kid safe and he was more than willing to give it all up in the name of some greater good. Stefan was glad the kid had some kind of moral foundations - all things considered, it could have been much worse - but the thought of losing Michael again, no matter how good the cause, just wasn't acceptable.

Which was why Stefan's plan was better. There were more players in the game, which did mean more people were putting themselves on the line, but it improved the odds of all of them walking out alive. In Stefan's book, that was worth the risk.

He just had to convince Michael of that.

Stefan sighed, standing up. Moving to the couch, he settled into the cushion on the other side of Michael. He paused, gathering his words carefully. "Before I got you out of there, finding you was all I could think about. It...consumed me. It made me do things I wasn't proud of. All I could think about was finding _you_, at almost any cost."

Michael's face was tense, barely composed.

Stefan continued, head dropping for a moment. He looked back up with a self-deprecating smile. "I wasn't a very good person. At least not one I was very proud to be." He took a breath, smile widening. "But you changed that. Getting you out wasn't just the best thing I'd ever done for _you_, it was the best thing I'd ever done for _me_. We need to go back and do what's right, but I'm not risking who I've become either. I promise."

Michael's eyes were wide, almost childlike for a moment. It wasn't a look Stefan got often, not with Michael's guise of self-confidence. But even underneath all the layers of knowledge and capability, Michael was still a _child. _Even at the age of eighteen, Michael's childlike innocence was disarming and reassuring all at once.

But then, as quickly as it came, the look vanished as Michael's brows knit together. He nodded tightly. "Okay," he said.

"Okay?" Stefan repeated.

Michael collected a deep breath. "If we're going to do this, you'd better call Saul."

With a grin, Stefan said, "I'm on it."

Pushing himself to his feet, Stefan rumpled Michael's hair, eliciting a squawk from the younger boy as he went to his bedroom to make a phone call.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This is still a bit expository, but given that this fic tops out at nearly 100,000 words, it's kind of necessary :)

CHAPTER TWO

Saul was always a phone call away, ready with intel and quips. But getting him to come to South America was always a bit more trying. The other man had made the trip twice before, when he stumbled across particularly telling intel on the Institute, and according to Stefan's estimation, it was about time for another stamp in Saul's passport.

And all it took was the right dollar amount.

Two days later, Saul was travel weary, his silk shirt only marginally rumpled to show for his flight.

"I think it actually got _hotter_ than the last time I was here," Saul whined, slapping at a mosquito on his neck. After Saul had gotten settled, Stefan had requested a meeting at Jorge's bar.

"No, I think you've just got whinier," Stefan said.

"Actually, we're moving into the cooler season soon, so it's probably just a perception issue," Michael explained helpfully. "It's in your head. Don't obsess over it, and you're less likely to feel it."

Saul's expression was vaguely perturbed. "Getting more talkative, I see," he mused.

Stefan snorted, slapping Saul on the back. "I thought you liked it here."

"I thought I liked the _women _here," Saul corrected. Then he looked around, nose wrinkled. "Of course, last time you took me to a place with a little more class." He shook his head. "Damn, Smirnoff, how do you have the money to pay me if these are the digs you're hanging out in?"

It was true on multiple levels. Stefan could afford more if he wanted to, and sometimes the thought crossed his mind. But the fact was even though he needed Anatoly's money to get them down here, he did not relish the thought of relying on his father for much more than that. The less he was indebted to his father, the better, and the less money he took from him, the fewer ties Stefan had to the family and all its facets.

Besides, Michael didn't care about the money. Michael just wanted a place to call home, and this did it. By picking one of the less tourist oriented parts of the city, they could keep their living expenses manageable and stay under the radar. It was a win-win as far as Stefan was concerned.

"You need a little more culture," Stefan said with an indifferent shrug.

Michael nodded solemnly. "He tells that to me all the time," he told Saul with an air of empathy. "It's a common method of self-justification that lets him make faulty choices but still feel good about himself."

Stefan glared at Michael, resisting the urge to whap the kid upside the head.

"Do you two need some alone time? Perhaps to commiserate and bond over the woes of your horrible, horrible lives. I mean, Michael, going to school, not paying a dime of tuition or rent, and still getting all the free sugar you can snort - how do you manage?" Stefan asked mockingly. "And Saul. Flying business class got your panties in a twist?"

Saul glowered. "You have no idea."

"Buck up," Stefan said. "If we get down to business, I'm sure you can find someone to help you with that."

The mere thought of sex was enough to make Michael's face brighten. Stefan figured that'd be a problem until he got laid, but between those two options, Stefan would take the juvenile interest.

Saul sighed, settling back. "We're at least getting drinks, aren't we?"

Stefan rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair and making eye contact with Talia, the waitress on duty. He nodded at her once, enough for her to understand that two beers and one soda were in order, no matter how much Michael may try to talk her into more when Stefan wasn't looking.

"You know that legal drinking limits are entirely arbitrary," Michael informed Stefan helpfully. "Many other cultures around the world permit drinking at much younger ages which often results in much lower incidences of alcohol abuse."

Saul smothered a giggle.

Stefan didn't know who to glare at first. He chose Michael. "Legal or not, the last thing I need to know is if the increased biological makeup of a chimera makes them less prone to alcohol's effect or simply enhances it. You're hyper enough as it is, we don't need to throw inebriation into the mix, okay?"

And the last thing he needed was to field questions from Michael about the different ways in which alcohol had screwed with his own mind before while he was trying to talk Saul into risking life and limb.

Which was, not so coincidentally, why he was more than prepared to buy Saul as much alcohol as he could drink. Money was a powerful motivator, and playing the morality card had its moments, but a little extra alcohol in the system could only help Stefan's case.

Talia arrived, all smiles, as she put the drinks down. Her eyes passed over Saul, lingering on Michael, who seemed to soak up the attention. Hell, he was ogling her, practically undressing her with his eyes in a way that would make a modest woman running for cover.

Unfortunately, Talia was not a modest woman and Michael was a little horndog sometimes and if Stefan let this go on much longer, he wasn't sure what would happen: either Talia would throw Michael down on the table and get to business or the kid would squirrel away in total embarrassment at not knowing how to deal with his body's automatic physical responses.

Stefan opted for neither. Instead, he cleared his throat sharply.

Michael jumped a little, wrapping his hands around his drink and taking a gulp.

Talia looked vaguely disappointed, but scurried away.

Saul took a long drink, savoring the beer for whatever it was worth. Stefan took a meager sip of his, eyes on Saul as the other man put the bottle on the table with a sigh. "So," he said, as conversationally as he could pull off. "I take it you have something for me and that you didn't pay for me to come down here for purely social reasons."

Stefan glanced at Michael, who shrugged, indicating this was Stefan's show. Collecting a breath, Stefan knew there was no way around saying it. While leading Michael to the right conclusion was a roundabout process, talking to Saul was a straightforward comparison. Saul's emotions were much less complex, not nearly as couched in uncertainties and trauma. He could possibly trick Saul on some points, but if he was going to get Saul on board, getting to the point was the best bet.

"We want to go after the Institute," Stefan said with finality.

Saul raised an eyebrow. "Define, _go after_."

Stefan drew another breath. "Break in, overthrow the staff, and rescue the kids."

Saul's eyes widened. He nodded. "Oh." Then he eyed Stefan. "You do know that there are ways of _going after_ something without initiating a suicide run, right?"

Stefan sighed. "It won't work any other way. With their ties and their financing, we have to strike and we have to strike hard. Get in, get it done. Put an end to it once and for all. If we can get past the guards and to the central security station, we should be able to lock it down pretty effectively."

Michael looked impassive, hands resting on the table, nodding in agreement with Stefan.

Saul glanced at Michael, then back to Stefan, almost as if he was watching for the _got ya_ at the end of a joke. "You make it sound so easy," Saul said finally, when he realized no proclamation was coming. He sounded a little breathless at the idea of it.

"It is," Stefan said, stronger now. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "They've been on the move. There's no telling when their next transition might be. They're the closest they'll probably ever be - luck and timing are on our side. We'd be idiots not to take advantage of it."

"So, let me get this straight," Saul said slowly, fingering his drink purposefully. "You two geniuses want to break _back_ in to the Institute, a task which, if you may recall, nearly got us _all_ killed. Only this time you want to do it while rescuing all of the kids, even though some of them may very well want to kill us instead of come."

Stefan nodded. He wouldn't have phrased it quite so negatively, but a year away from the mob had softened him a bit on the positive side of things. "Yeah, pretty much."

Saul stared a minute longer, before letting out a bark of laughter. "You two do realize that this really is a suicide mission you're planning, right?"

"I'm mostly convinced that two thirds of any successful plan is merely believing in it," Michael said simply, and Stefan tried not to smile. The kid had picked up a lot in the last year - good and bad - and sometimes it was all Stefan could do not to beam with pride.

"Well, kid, I think you're going to need more than spit and a prayer to get this one off the ground. I mean, tactically speaking, you're going to need weaponry, explosives, stealth gear, and some pretty strong stuff to subdue the kids and haul ass back out. It's one thing to sneak one runt out, if you'll recall, and a whole compound? Unless they're really good at playing follow the leader, you're going to need some serious backup to keep the guards entertained while you play the pied piper."

"Well, we weren't thinking of going in _alone_," Michael said plaintively.

Saul grunted, taking a drink. He put his glass primly on the table and laughed heartily. "And what kind of moron do you think is going to go with you on this little escapade?"

"Oh, I don't know," Stefan said thoughtfully. "Someone with diverse skills, a wealth of contacts. Someone who can get in and out with no one being the wiser. A smooth operator, who knows how not to turn down a big payday when he sees it."

Understanding dawned on Saul and he shook his head. "Oh, no, no, no," he protested. "You talked me into this crap once, my friend, and that was enough. You're fresh out of favors with me, and you know it."

Michael blinked, giving him a mildly forlorn look. Stefan had been trying to coach him on it, but his so-called instructors at the Institute were right about this much: the kid was a horrible actor.

Stefan tsked in his throat. "Oh, come on, Saul," he said. He flashed his most disarming smile. "You know you want to."

"No," Saul again, more insistently this time. "No way."

"All the excitement," Stefan pushed.

Saul scoffed. "Any excitement I need, I can find with a beautiful women and a pair of sheets," he said.

Michael perked up at that, clearly interested.

Stefan preempted any questions on that front. "Saul, it's for the kids," he said, with as much emotion as he could muster. "The _kids_."

That mattered. Even to a son of a bitch like Saul, who played fast and loose with morals when he saw fit. Saul could almost always be bought with a price, but underneath all the designer clothes and well groomed facade, the playboy wannabe had a heart. Strained, but still beating.

His mouth opened, as if to reply, but nothing came out. He sat like that for a moment, just staring at us.

Finally, he shut his mouth, shaking his head and picking up his drink. After downing it, he slammed it on the table, breathing out a curse. "You're going to be the death of me, Smirnoff. You and that punk kid of yours - more trouble than you're worth."

Michael's face broke into a grin. Stefan leaned over, clapping Saul congenially on the shoulder. "Let me buy you another drink," he said.

Saul snorted. "You're going to buy me a whole hell of a lot more than another drink," he said. "Try a drink every time we meet for the next year. The next two years. Hell, for the rest of your _life_."

Stefan nodded absently, lifting his arm and nodding at his waiter.

"In theory, then, you're making out pretty good from this deal," Michael observed, playing with the straw to his soda.

The waiter came, replacing their drinks with fresh ones. Saul smirked, taking a quick drink of his. "In theory, kid. It only pays off when you're alive to see it."

Michael seemed to consider that. "Then maybe you should make sure to see a lot of Stefan before we go," he said thoughtfully. Then, when he realized how morbid it sounded, he amended, "Just in case."

Saul didn't let the slip up go unnoticed. He laughed harshly, taking another drink. "Probably a good idea," he agreed. Then he turned his eyes to Stefan. "If I'm too sober, I'm bound to back out."

"Nah," Stefan said, with a sip of his own. "It's just a nice excuse for doing the right thing."

Saul didn't disagree. "So what else do you two geniuses need to pull this off? Obviously, my skills are a crucial addition, but what other things are we thinking of stockpiling here?"

Stefan sat back, with a shrug. "The expected artillery. We'll have to get some of the harder stuff in case we get into it rough, but I'd like to keep it to as few casualties as possible."

Saul's smile was snide. "Preferably, keeping ourselves off the list."

"The entire staff is trained, so we'll need weapons that work quickly and on a wide scale," Michael chimed in.

"I can cover that," Stefan said. It would require calling in some favors, but it was doable. One good thing about being the son of a crime boss was that it was always possible to procure certain illegal items without anyone thinking twice.

"I get how we're getting _in_," Saul said. "But what about an exit strategy? I mean, if these guys are as under the radar as they seem to be, it's going to be a neat trick to pull of a coup and maintain it before we're flushed out by the government - or worse, down here."

Stefan glanced at Michael, who shrugged. This was Stefan's game plan. "We don't really plan on sticking around to find out," he admitted. "The goal is to take control and duck out and let someone else handle the aftermath."

Saul frowned in consideration. "If you're serious, and you really want this to be _over_, you're going to need to take it public," Saul said, lips pursed.

It was a fact Stefan was already keenly aware of, though admittedly, it was his least favorite part of it all. Springing Michael had always been something he'd intended to keep on the down low, but breaking them all free? Shutting the whole operation down? They'd need the kind of backup that hired men and law enforcement couldn't provide: public opinion.

"We already considered that," Michael said for him.

Saul quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah? And what you'd come up with to solve that problem, boy wonder?"

"I'm Batman, he's Robin," Michael said without missing a beat, voice completely serious despite the fact that he was speaking out of his ass. He nodded toward Stefan. "Ask him."

Stefan stifled a snort. "We do the operation alone, just like we planned," he said, choosing to ignore the emasculating insults being hurled his way.

Saul shook his head. "So far I'm not seeing how this brilliant plan is an improvement over before."

"Well, before we were trying _not _to get noticed," Stefan said. "This time, we make a messy, obvious escape. In fact, I was thinking about calling the press to the whole thing, take some pictures and do it up right."

Saul gaped for a moment. Then he laughed. "The press?"

Stefan nodded with some satisfaction. "Get the story published as many places as we can before whoever it is can come in and try to play clean up. If it gets out far enough, they won't be able to pull it back."

Saul seemed to be considering it.

"It's really quite clever," Michael added in. "The press was my idea."

Stefan slugged him in the arm. "Your idea, really?"

Michael jutted out his chin. "More or less."

More or less, Stefan's _ass_. The kid had been opposed to risking any kind of outside involvement, though it was his smart-ass comment that had given Stefan the guts to really consider it.

Saul laughed again, taking a hard drink and slamming the glass on the table. He nodded to their waitress, shaking his head. He looked from Stefan to Michael in disbelieving bemusement. "I can't decide who's stupider," he mused. "Dumb and Dumber, in the flesh."

Stefan smirked. "And you're following us, so what does that make you?"

Michael cocked his head. "But would I be Jeff Daniels or Jim Carey?"

"As long as you're not the dead parakeet, we're all set," Stefan said, tousling Michael's hair.

Ducking away, Michael scowled. The waitress came up and replaced Saul's drink, offering them an absent smile before she slunk back into the crowd.

"So I'm to assume you have thought out some of the details of how we're going to get in," Saul said, once the girl was safely out of range.

"Well, it's a little rough," Stefan admitted.

"We haven't really thought about it at all," Michael answered plainly.

Saul took a long drink. "And why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Because you love us," Stefan reminded him with a congenial smile.

With a snort, Saul shook his head. "I love that you pay me," he said. "But at this point, I'd be better off cutting my losses and booking a flight home."

"And miss out all the fun?" Stefan asked.

Saul sighed, but it was mostly for show. Stefan had dug his hooks into Saul a long time ago and any protests were nothing more than posturing. In for a penny, in for a pound. Saul had already risked life and limb for this endeavor, and Stefan knew that even though few things touch Saul's heart, Michael and the plight of the other kids in the Institute certainly fit the bill.

Even playboys sometimes thought with their hearts and not their nether regions. Stefan was grateful for that in more ways than one.

Slinking in his seat, Saul set his face in a frumpy glare. "Breaking back in and alerting the press," he muttered.

"We've gone on less," Stefan reminded him.

"Ha," Saul said, but didn't disagree. He studied his drink for a minute, collecting a breath before glancing at Michael and settling his eyes on Stefan. Stefan knew what he was thinking. They'd gone on less and came out with more. Michael was living, breathing proof of that. Saul quirked his lips into a smile. "You think we can do this then?"

Michael was nodding and Stefan just grinned, feeling all the pieces start to fall into place. It wasn't cockiness but confidence, the knowledge that sometimes the greatest weapon was just believing that the end was worth it. That mindset had gotten him Michael; Stefan believed it could do anything.

Besides, getting Michael and Saul on board was the hard part. The rest? Just a piece of cake.

"I don't _think_ we can," he said contentedly. "I _know_ we can."

-o-

Good vibes and solidarity were a great morale booster, but they certainly didn't plan plans or get the job done. As confident as Stefan was that they _would_ be successful, they still had some finer details to go over.

Like, how they were going to get in, break out kids who may or may not try to kill them, get out safely with minimal casualties while avoiding getting killed or caught before alerting the press.

Just the small stuff.

Fortunately, they made a good trio. Michael had the insight and mindset of the Institute to guide them, while Saul had amassed enough technical intel on the site to give them a starting point. Stefan could add some colorful illegal tactics for getting in and doing damage. Stefan kept Saul stocked with alcohol while Michael nursed a Coke, and they started to get the elements in place.

Still, the plan was rough. This compound was less accessible, probably because it wasn't as hard to blend in on South American soil as it was in an American suburb. Still, the place was oddly unmanned. The number of guards seemed smaller and there seemed to be rarely anyone coming or going. In fact, in Stefan's estimation, it had to be mostly self-sustained somehow.

That limited their possible ins, but as Michael pointed out, gave them the element of surprise. If the new Institute truly was a self-contained bubble, they wouldn't be as wary of outside threats. If they could circumvent the outer security protocols, they might get much further without being noticed than back in the States.

And considering that their goal was much broader this time, Stefan didn't actually think a calculated strike was the way to go. No, they wanted more than a simple in and out. They needed to effectively stage a coup.

Michael was skeptical on that. Downing the security and other staff would be a time consuming process, although Stefan was inclined to think that mere humans could be daunted by enough firepower and explosions. The other factor, of course, were the kids, some of whom may consider them tests that needed to be passed. Convincing them otherwise was possible, and some might even jump at the chance of freedom, but the trick was to get a word in edgewise before they ended you.

Saul smiled bitterly. It had been a long night of planning; productive, but they were passing that point quickly as Saul's level of inebriation rose and his inhibitions lowered. "Now that's just what I want to hear," he said, a slight slur to his words. "That the kids I'm trying to save are the ones who are most likely to kill me where I stand. That really makes me want to go through with this little suicide run."

Michael shrugged, somewhat indifferently. "They don't know any better," he said frankly, and there was a timber in his voice Stefan recognized from their early days together. "Everything is posed to them as hypotheticals. Killing is a means of advancement. There is no possibility of anything else. To think otherwise is almost inconceivable. They don't even know how to hope."

Saul's complaints fell silent to Michael's admission. Saul might have been working his way to getting a nice, strong buzz, but he still had a hint of class.

Which was good. Even Saul seemed to recognize just how raw the emotions were for Michael. In fact, it was as much as Stefan had ever heard the kid share to someone else. This mission was personal, and their cause was good. Whether or not the victims were killers, they were victims first. Stefan had to believe that, had to believe in _them_, just like he had to believe in Michael.

And as personal as it was for Stefan, it was more so for Michael. That was his biggest hesitation all of this - not getting caught, not even getting killed - but bringing up these memories for Michael. Stefan had worked hard to get Michael safe, and no matter how well adjusted Michael seemed most of the time, Stefan knew the hurt and confusion of his childhood was still there, just below the surface.

Which meant it was time for a break.

Pulling out his wallet, Stefan snagged a ten and tossed it at Michael. "Here, go get yourself something sweet to eat," he said.

Michael looked confused for a moment.

Stefan shrugged, leaning back as he shoved the wallet back in his pocket. "It's been almost three hours since you ate anything made of sugar or grease. I'm sure you're about to go into withdrawal if you don't act now. You can go ahead and meet me at home. I won't be long."

If Michael was skeptical, the thought quickly passed at the undeniable draw of sugar and other foods of no nutritional value. Like a moth to a flame, Michael took the ten and made his way to the bar.

Stefan watched him go, watching as he smiled at the bartender, a short girl probably Stefan's age. She was all smiles for him as Michael leaned against the counter, casual as can be. He got an order in a bag, flashed one more grin, and took it to go.

It was good to see the kid like that. Young and free and _normal_. If Stefan didn't know better, sometimes he might be easy to forget all that he'd endured and all that Stefan still had to protect him from.

"Hell of a kid," Saul mused.

Stefan turned his attention back to Saul, picking up his drink. He gave the bottle a look. "No kidding."

"Go through what he did," Saul said with a shake of his head. "That's some kind of resiliency. And I thought I was impressive."

Stefan swallowed a drink bitterly. "You're really making that reference?''

Saul's grin wasn't even sheepish. "It was the best parallel I had."

With a face of disgust, Stefan put his bottle back on the table. "Well, it's hard enough keeping us both sane, and I don't need your perverted imagery screwing with my mind."

Saul's smile faded, and he took a drink. When he swallowed, he looked at Stefan again, seriously and reserved. "Are you going to tell him?"

Stefan frowned. "Tell him what?"

"The truth," Saul replied. "That he's not your long lost brother."

Stefan's frown deepened into a scowl. "I told you, we don't talk about that. Not _ever_."

Saul held up a hand. "I know, I know," he said. "And it's not my secret to tell, not even if I were inclined. But I'm just wondering if you'd thought about it, is all."

Stefan had thought about it - a lot. Ever since he'd remembered the truth about Lukas' fate back at the beach house, it had been a whirlwind of emotions. The decision to maintain the illusion, though, had been surprisingly easy. Stefan needed a brother - that much was clear - and even if Michael wouldn't admit it, he needed one, too. Stefan wasn't about to take that away, not when Michael had finally come to believe in it himself.

"He's a bright kid," Saul continued. "He's bound to put it together someday."

The truth was, Michael's better sense already had put it together. It was why Michael had resisted Stefan's blind determination for so long. Michael _wanted _this lie. "He's been through too much," Stefan said. "He needs this to ground him, just for awhile."

"So you do plan on telling him?"

Stefan sighed, fingering his own drink. There would be a day when the lie wouldn't matter, when Michael was strong enough and secure enough to face it. But Michael's existence was still being tentatively forged, constructed on uncertain footing, grounded only by the idea that family was worth fighting for.

He took a drink, swallowing it hard. He put his glass down, nodding his head. "Someday," he said. Then he shook his head. "But not yet. He's not ready."

Saul nodded, looking back down at his own drink. When he looked up, his expression was open, more sincere than Stefan was used to. "You're doing right by that kid, you know," he said. "It's a hell of a thing for you to do, give up everything for him. And then risk it all, all over again."

Stefan scoffed, taking another drink. "It's nothing."

"It's something," Saul said. "You have a damn heart of gold under all that crappy clothes and poor upkeep. You're a genuine hero, Smirnoff."

Stefan just shook his head. "You know how I am about family," he said, and they were words he meant, down in his very core. The truest thing he'd ever known. "And Michael's more my family than anyone else in this world."

"Well," Saul said resolutely, raising his glass. "I can drink to that."

Stefan snickered, picking his bottle back up. "You'd drink to anything, Casanova."

Saul clanked his glass against the bottle of beer, a wide smile on his face. "Don't ruin the moment," he said before tipping his head back to down his drink.

Stefan followed suit, swallowing the rest of his beer in a large gulp.

Saul slammed his glass back on the table, taking a deep breath. "I think I'm going to need another round."

Stefan reached for his wallet. "Count me out," he said. "I can't leave the kid alone for too long. He keeps finding ways around the child lock on the TV. And now that I've let him get hyped up on sugar, there's no telling what he'll be in to."

"Aw, don't crap out on me now, Smirnoff," Saul said, almost whining. "You're forgetting that while the joys of familial love are getting you through this journey, you're asking me along with nothing but the promise of a payday that may or may not pan out. The least you can do is gird my loins a little bit to get me through the night."

Stefan made a face. "I'm not girding anything near your loins," he said, plunking a few bills on the table.

Saul snorted. "Another round," he said. "Just buy me one more round. I'm almost drunk enough to get some action going on. Normally I prefer women who don't go au-natural, but with a little more alcohol, certain compromises can be made."

Stefan pulled another wad of bills out of his pocket, tossing it at Saul with a look of disdain written over his features. "For the record, I'm paying you to shut up, not so you can get your kicks."

Saul flashed a supreme grin, white teeth glinting. "My kicks thank you."

Stefan rolled his eyes. "Just be sober for our planning meeting tomorrow. We still need a date and a getaway time and I could really do without listening to you moan while we hash it out."

Saul offered a mock salute. "Sober and ready to go, Smirnoff. And if things go well, extra peppy."

With another shake of his head, Stefan headed away. Saul was a big boy, and even though he didn't always show it, he was a professional. More than that, he understood the stakes, even if he didn't want to talk about them. He knew what this mean to Stefan; he knew what it meant to Michael. And he knew what it might mean to a handful of children in the Institute. Saul would be there and Saul would be ready. "Have fun," Stefan called over his shoulder.

Saul was already eyeballing one of the locals, young and buxom, tight skirt and a low cut shirt that didn't leave much to the imagination. "Don't worry," he called back, a twinkle in his eye. "I will."

There was a lot of room to doubt a lot of aspects of their farfetched plan, but Saul having a good time? Really not one of them.

But Stefan wouldn't begrudge him that, not even if he wanted to. Sure, it was fun to give the other man a hard time, and Saul certainly could use the ribbing to keep his massive ego in check. But Saul was helping them, and anyone who helped Michael was a friend, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

For Stefan, however, while getting buzzed was always pleasant, it wasn't what he really wanted to be doing. His life was simpler now, despite all the intrigue and plots he seemed to be coming up with. Really, his life seemed complete. With Michael in his life, the rest just seemed like background noise.

It was a good feeling. The best. Stefan hadn't felt this good - felt this _happy _in years. Since Lukas had died.

This lie wasn't just good for Michael. It was good for both of them, and Stefan knew it. Someday, there would be time for the details of the truth. But the only thing that mattered to Stefan now, was Michael. Keeping Michael happy, helping him finish growing up. And if that meant a few lies, if that meant a few missions to the Institute - then Stefan was all over it, no questions asked.

That was what brothers were all about, after all.

The thought made Stefan smile as he made his way out onto the street and back to the apartment. Hell, high water, crazy chimera doctors, pregnant outlaw teenagers who scammed them. As long as there was _Michael_, Stefan could handle just about any of it.

-o-

It was a solid plan.

Saul was good at thinking of contingencies. Stefan was skilled at coming up with solutions. If anyone could do it, they could.

They had done it before, after all. Michael could still recall his own escape and how unlikely that had been. Yet, against all odds, Stefan had got him out and kept him out, even after Jericho tracked them down. Stefan was capable of great feats in the name of family, and that mattered.

But Michael was too afraid to admit that he wasn't sure it was enough.

It wasn't something he could give voice to, even if he wanted to. Stefan's most stringent beliefs were extreme and reckless but so often _right_. They were powerful because they were contagious, even if they weren't always smart.

This plan wasn't smart.

Yes, Saul had found a route to the compound. A few back roads and a densely wooded area. It would provide appropriate cover and lead them to one of the back doors.

Stefan had an idea for the back door. Some high grade explosive, did their job on the lock without anything more than a muffled pop. He even had a rather useful way to disable the alarm. Apparently, blowing the thing out of the wall prevented it from sounding. At worst, it would register as a malfunction, giving them the time they needed to make inroads into the facility.

Stun guns and tear gas would be useful on security personnel, and instead of breaking the other children out, the goal was to take the security center, put all captives in a locked closet, then communicate with the children all at once.

This was Michael's idea. There was an element of hive mentality in the Institute, and the children were not likely to believe anyone in a one on one situation. If they could be given proof that the current leaders in the Institute were out of control, it was possible that they would be more amenable to change.

Once the personnel were secure and the children were safe, they could take off, call the authorities and the press and leave before anyone was wiser. To be safe, they would abandon their apartment in La Paz for now, and Stefan would arrange for alternative housing until things were safe enough to make another move.

It was a good plan. Saul and Stefan would be armed with real weaponry, just in case, and Michael was their ace in the hole, able to knock out the guards and other staff when other measures failed. The smartest option would be for Michael to take lead, to put them all out one at a time, but Michael knew Stefan didn't want to make him do that.

Despite knowing it was a weaker plan, Michael was still grateful for the reprieve.

And in all of it, Michael dreaded the plan still. He wanted to help the other children, he wanted to bring the people who did this to justice, but it _scared _him. The Institute had taken so much of his life, more than he had even imagined, and going back in was even harder to imagine. The very thought of it made him cold inside.

Swallowing hard, he shifted on the couch, feeling completely out of place. Stefan and Saul were enjoying the fruits of their labors, relishing in a plan well laid, a beer apiece to celebrate. Michael had been rewarded with a cold Dr. Pepper, one of his personal favorites, but it tasted bitter and flat in his mouth.

Suddenly, Michael's thoughts were interrupted when he was hit in the head with a pillow.

Leveling a glare at his brother, Michael tossed the pillow on the floor. "And I'm supposed to believe you can lead this expedition when you're still throwing pillows at my head?"

Stefan snickered. "I did have impeccable aim."

Michael remembered to take a sip of his drink. "I'm sure pillow tossing will be a very helpful skill when we're going against armed guards and crazed scientists."

Stefan shrugged. "Pillows, smoke bombs," he said. "They're all the same."

Michael had grown accustomed to Stefan's overblown delusions in the past year. Normally they were amusing, assuring, but they were cold comforts now. He could not help but think that while going back was the right thing to do, it might be the biggest mistake they ever made.

A year ago, risking his life on a whim would have seemed sufficient. He'd had nothing to lose.

It was different now. Now Michael had a life, friends, a _brother_. He had everything to lose and the thought of that was nearly paralyzing.

Saul pushed to his feet with a sigh, downing the last of his drink a single gulp. "I think I feel as good about this as I'm going to," he announced. He turned a critical eye to Stefan. "You have my paycheck?"

Stefan produced a check from his pocket, waving it at Saul with a grin. "Make sure you actually pick up some supplies instead of blowing it all on drinks."

Saul plucked the check from Stefan's hand, looking it over with a satisfied smile. "Some fatigues, ski masks, stun guns. Not a problem." He looked at Stefan again. "It's a pleasure doing business, Smirnoff."

Stefan snorted. "Just make sure you don't cash it in a traceable account," he said.

Saul rolled his eyes. "I'm greedy and beautiful, not stupid."

"Sorry, sometimes those three just go together in my mind," Stefan said with a smirk.

"Oh, you slay me," Saul mocked, folding the check into his pocket. "You've got the heavy artillery?"

"I've still got some contacts to get me the bombs and guns without raising any eyebrows," Stefan confirmed.

"And you've got a journalist?" Saul asked again.

It was clear that Saul was nervous. Calm demeanor aside, it was not like Saul to triple check the details like he was. Saul was an interesting contrast to his brother, and Michael was inclined to trust him based on his obvious relationship with Stefan. Friends of Stefan's were friends of his. That was the way it worked with family.

And still, sometimes he had to wonder how Saul pulled it off. Especially all the sex. If a man had that much sex, was he still going to function like a capable human being? Maybe that was what the drinking was for?

Michael planned on finding out, once Stefan let him drink alcohol and when he was able to stop blushing at the mere sight of a girl.

"You're worrying like a mother hen," Stefan chided. "I've got the journalist taken care of. Now go home, get some rest. You're not getting paid extra to sit around at my place and waste time."

Saul held up his hands, scooting toward the door. "Alright, alright." He paused, turning back with a smile at Michael. "Keep an eye on him, kid. That brother of yours, he needs all the help he can get."

Saul was out the door before the pillow Stefan threw at him bounced harmlessly off it.

"Ridiculous prick," Stefan muttered, but there was obvious affection in his voice.

"He's worried," Michael observed.

"No need to worry," Stefan said with a shrug. "We've got this one planned out down to the minute. Saul just needs to start using his balls for things besides sex, and we'd be set."

Michael tried to smile at the joke, but didn't quite make it. They lapsed into silence.

It was hard not to notice Stefan's eyes on him. Michael was used to that, Stefan's careful gaze. His brother had a tendency to keep him in sight when possible, even when he thought Michael didn't notice. Michael always noticed, but it didn't bother him. The security cameras at the Institute had been unnerving and invasive, but Stefan's watchful eye was a reminder that he never had to fight his battles alone. Not anymore.

"Misha, you don't have to worry either, you know," Stefan said, his voice lower now. Gentle.

Michael froze a little, embarrassed that it had been so readily apparent. He took a drink, forcing it down. "I'm fine," he lied.

"You don't even have to go," Stefan offered. "Saul and I, we can-"

But Michael's head jerked up, eyes wide, head shaking. "You're not going without me."

Stefan's face was sympathetic. "I know this is hard for you."

"This is my fight, too," he insisted, fighting past the lump in his throat.

"Yeah, but you don't have to fight it face to face," Stefan said. "Trust me, I know."

It would be easier that way. To let Stefan take care of it for him. And Stefan would, without question. There would be no teasing, no guilt. Stefan would do that for him in an instant.

But it was more than facing the Institute.

He shook his head again, more adamantly. "I need to go. I can't let you do it alone."

"I'm going to have Saul-"

"He can't protect you, not like I can," Michael said fiercely.

Stefan's eyebrows raised. "You know," he said slowly. "It's big brothers who are the protectors. Little brothers can just sit back and enjoy the ride."

Michael made a face. "That's stupid."

"That's just the way it is."

"Not for us," Michael said back harshly. Because his fears and doubts weren't things he could run from. They were things he had to embrace. Not for himself, but for Stefan. "If you're going back, I'm going with you. And we will walk out of there together."

The words almost hurt to say, straining his resolve, but strengthening it all the same. It was a solid plan, not a smart plan, but the best plan they had. And Michael knew no matter what weapons they collected, nothing would be as powerful as Michael and Stefan _together_.

Brothers.

The goal Michael held up as the prize at the end of the race, the crutch he used when things seemed to hard. Stefan was everything he needed, and for that Michael would give everything he had back.

That was what brothers did.

Stefan held his gaze, a flood of emotions passing through his eyes. They settled on something like pride. "Okay," he said slowly, nodding his head. "Then we do this together."

Michael nodded readily, steeling himself again. "Okay," he said with a shaky breath. "Together."

-o-

It wasn't easy to lie to Michael.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. In some ways, it was exceptionally easy to lie to Michael. Stefan would do anything to protect the kid and sometimes telling simple little white lies just sort of went with the territory.

And sometimes not so simple little white lies. Like this job in the Institute - Stefan knew Michael wanted to be a part of it. He knew it meant something to Michael to help end the organization that created him, that continued to destroy the lives of others like him. But it scared the kid - and with good reason. If anyone knew what the Institute was capable of, it was Michael. He had experienced their wrath and control every day for most of his life. While the thought of justice would definitely appeal to a kid like Michael, it would also freak him out.

So, yes, Stefan lied. Acted like it was no big deal, an in and out job. Nothing they couldn't handle. Because there was no way that Stefan was going to freak the kid out by spelling out all the many ways it could go wrong.

The lie was harmless. Necessary.

So why did he feel guilty?

With a sigh, Stefan hunched over, stirring his drink with his straw. He was on the clock now, so he was keeping it alcohol-free, pulling his final loose ends together. He'd already contacted an old friend about the remaining weapons and set up a rendezvous for later in the afternoon but he still had to square away the journalist to break their story.

It was the first time he'd been away from Michael since the kid expressed some trepidation after their meeting with Saul. It wasn't particularly like Michael. His younger brother liked to appear in control and normal. Moments where he let his guard down happened, but Stefan was gracious enough to offer the needed support and let them pass without another word. That was just what big brothers did.

Speaking of lies.

Stefan took a drink, swallowing hard. That lie was the easiest and hardest of them all. It made so much sense, to just let Michael believe they were brothers. Stefan knew that belief had changed Michael, had buoyed his faith and hope and allowed him to thrive. It was such an important and good thing for him, to have a family to build himself off of. Stefan would not deprive Michael of that for anything in this world.

And yet - there was a dark side to it. The way Michael looked at the pictures - pictures of Lukas and tried to recreate the memories. Michael had spent his childhood growing up with a false reality and sometimes Stefan couldn't help but wonder if he was giving him the same thing. His intentions were better, his focus much purer, but a lie was a lie and sometimes it was a bitter pill to swallow.

Which was why Michael couldn't know. Not so Stefan could save his own skin, but because Stefan did not want to see Michael suffer that way. To lose one's hope was a terrible thing. Stefan knew that. He had lived it for ten years after losing Lukas. He would spare Michael from that at any cost.

Any cost.

He put his glass back on the table, glancing at his watch. His contact was supposed to be there by now. The whole being tardy thing was not a good start. He needed someone reliable, because what he was going to trust them to do was pretty damn important.

Of course, finding the right journalist was a bit of a crap shoot. Of all of Stefan's contacts, none of them were of the journalistic bent, and since Stefan didn't spend his free time perusing the papers, he wasn't aware of any prominent names to look for or avoid. Eventually he'd decided against someone local anyway - he wanted better coverage. Someone international, with ties outside of Bolivia for maximum exposure.

Someone too high up and there'd be too many complications. Stefan knew from experience, the higher up someone got, the more attention they wanted for themselves, and Stefan needed this on the down low for as long as he could get it. He needed someone who wouldn't leverage his name and Michael's backstory for future success. He needed someone to straight up cover the facts, nothing more.

So when he found the list of AP representatives in South America, he'd picked one with moderate experience - not a veteran, but not a newbie. Someone who was published but not established.

All in all, Stefan had felt pretty good about Ava Leehey.

Until, of course, she turned out to be late. Even Michael managed to be on time. And Michael was an impossible once-would-be-assassin-turned-student-with-no-taste-and-a-sugar-fetish. If Michael could be on time, then surely a professional international journalist could be expected to uphold the same standards.

Maybe Stefan should have promised sugar. It seemed to work with Michael.

Shaking his head, Stefan took a drink. Only a year, and Michael had changed his life so completely. If only Sevastian could see him now - the jokes would never cease.

Stefan looked at his watch again, feeling his ire begin to rise. These things needed to run like clockwork. He was barely holding Michael's fears at bay as it was, and with this would-be journalist not quite living up to expectations, was doing nothing to bolster Stefan's own doubts.

And that made it hard to keep his the appearance for Michael.

Which, it was making him dislike Ava Leehey even more.

Giving the room a once over, Stefan was beginning to seriously consider blowing this joint. He couldn't wait forever. Wasn't going to wait forever.

There was a growing group of men at a table across the bar, raucous and jovial. A girl at the bar caught his eye, quirking her eyebrow suggestively.

Stefan reconsidered his decision to leave. Business may fall through, but there could still be pleasure.

But he wasn't Saul. Maybe the other man's excessive pheromones were rubbing off on him, More reason to book it.

With a bland smile, he nodded to the girl, digging in his pocket to take out his wallet. As he produced a few bills to pay for his drink, the girl got up, walking over to him with an appraising look.

"Leaving so soon?" she asked.

"Yeah," Stefan said. "Just waiting for someone, but I guess they're not coming."

"Oh," she said with a shrug. "Girlfriend?"

Stefan almost laughed at that. He shook his head. "No, just business."

She nodded, pulling out a card. "Ava Leehey," she said.

At that, Stefan looked up, surprised. "You're Ava Leehey?"

She glanced at the card, holding it out again. "That's what it says."

Stefan narrowed his eyes. "And so the reason you decided to sit at the bar instead of meeting me on time...?"

"I'm a journalist, Mr. Korsak," she said plaintively, her pretenses diminished. "I like to check out my sources before I trust them." She shrugged. "Nothing personal."

Stefan flicked the card. "Hell of a way to make a first impression," he said.

She seemed nonplussed. "You're the one who called in about some lead I couldn't pass up. Something of international relevance and possibly violating medical ethical standards and child endangerment laws. Heavy stuff. You'll have to forgive me for wanting to check it out first."

"Huh, and maybe the fact that I have a lead on all of that is why I don't feel so inclined to trust someone who stood me up."

"I was here the entire time," Ava assured him. "You're the one who didn't find me."

She had a point there, even if it wasn't quite fair. Her angle made sense, and if Stefan had been thinking, it might have been something he would have done. Scoping out Ms. Ava Leehey in advance might have saved him a headache.

Ava's expression softened a bit. "This is the only time I'll try to get the one up on you," she said. "We may not like to admit it, but journalists are at the mercy of their sources, and the best ones know it. I'm at your disposal. Should we sit?"

He was wary still - this was more than a story to Stefan. This was his brother's _life_. One player that wasn't up to par, and the whole thing could explode - and take Michael with it.

But there was something about her. Something about this girl he thought he could trust.

Or at least hear out. A few minutes of conversation could clear up a lot of worries. A thorough background check and having her tailed would certainly allay the rest.

Still eyeing her, Stefan sat down.

With a smile, Ava followed suit.

She wasn't beautiful in the drop dead gorgeous kind of way. She certainly wasn't anything Stefan would ever expect to see on a billboard or in a magazine. But there was still something attractive about her.

Her eyes were dark, deep and brown, but set a little too close together. Her brows were on the thick side, but still well kept behind her thick black-rimmed glasses. Her hair was short, a chalky sort of brown and from the cut and minimal styling, it was clear that she preferred a do that was easy to maintain.

Everything she did seemed to have a critical air about it, as if she were examining everything around her, processing it on a very fundamental level.

And, at the moment, her gaze was penetrating Stefan, a frown set on her flat lips, eyebrows knitted. Stefan knew that look, knew what she was doing. Most people tried to be more subtle, especially in his previous line of work, but he knew when he was being sized up, whether it was from a mob professional or a fledgling journalist.

"So," she said, pressing her lips together thoughtfully. "You think you have a lead for me."

Stefan nodded. "It's a good story."

She fiddled with her straw, stirring her drink with it. "You know, most stories that are dropped in a journalist's lap are crap," she said. "I have no interest in uncovering the long lost secret of your great grandfather's missing will. It might make a local human interest piece, but nothing that's going to be picked up by any outlet worth reading."

"No missing wills, I promise," Stefan said.

She still didn't believe him. "So what then?"

Stefan wet his lips, glancing around. This was a big step to take, telling someone new about the Institute. He'd kept it close to the vest for obvious reasons, and growing up in the family that he had, Stefan knew the value of secrets. And this wasn't just any secret. This was Michael's past - his _life_. Trusting some upstart journalist was a risk, but at this point, it was one he needed to take.

He sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "How about a government cover-up involving the genetic manufacturing of assassins."

Her frown deepened, eyes narrowing almost to slits. "Sounds like someone's been watching too many action movies. Life isn't like a Jason Bourne movie. Really."

Stefan scoffed. "No, you're right," he agreed. Then he leaned even closer, his face deadly serious. "Sometimes it's worse."

His certainty threw her and she leaned back in her chair, regarding him skeptically. "And I assume you have proof, then," she said. "I mean, you're not just some nut job carrying around _Catcher in the Rye _in his pocket, are you? Because it might have worked for Mel Gibson, but you haven't got his ass to pull it off."

Smirking, Stefan reached down, pulling out the manila envelope from his bag. He pushed it across to her, sitting back in his chair smugly.

She glanced at it, cautious, but then picked it up, lifting the flap. Carefully, she slid out the documents, glancing over them. Stefan had picked them carefully from the copies Saul had given him. It was just a fraction of the intel they'd amassed, and nothing too specific. Some overviews of the compound, a bit of background on the late Dr. Jericho. Just enough to make her believe him.

After taking in the research, she sat back in her chair. Her cocky confidence had given way to what Stefan could only assume was awe. Shaking her head, she gave a small laugh, almost disbelieving.

Stefan shrugged, and if he looked smug, it wasn't his fault. "You still think I'm full of crap?"

She looked at him again, eyes appraising him with new intensity. "Crap, no," she said. "Insane, yes." She sat up again, leafing through the papers. "I mean, do you know what you've got here? Really?"

Stefan nodded grimly. "I know it better than you do."

"Blowing the lid off this thing is going to be tough," she said. "We can't put anything in print until we get some concrete evidence from the inside. Without irrefutable proof, I'll just be the laughingstock of the journalism community."

"Don't worry about that," he assured her. "Write the piece and we'll get you the pictures and police reports you need."

Her face was genuinely surprised at that. "You have a man on the inside?"

"Not exactly," Stefan said. "But we plan to."

Her eyes narrowed. "Infiltrating a place like this - you're going to need some pretty solid references."

"Not if you go in the back door," Stefan pointed out.

She stared for a moment, then her mouth opened. She shook her head. "No," she said. "I was right. You _are_ insane."

Her incredulity was to be expected, perhaps, but it did get wearisome having to explain his reasoning time and again. "It has to be done," Stefan said. "They've got _kids_ in there. We can't just let it continue."

Ava's mouth closed in consideration. She sighed. "It's probably suicide."

"But it might not be," Stefan insisted.

Eyes rolling, Ava shook her head at him. "You are stupider than the average male," she said dismissively. Then she looked at him carefully. "I'm not sure I even want to know how you think you're going to do this, but I do want to know why."

"I told you, the kids-"

She shook her head. "No, I mean, that's a good reason, but how did you even find out about this place? And what have you got staked in this that makes you so damned set on outing them?"

It was in some ways a valid question, especially since Ava was a reporter. But this was where he had to tread lightly. He wanted to sell this story to the public, but he couldn't sell himself with it. Any mention of him would be a disaster - and any mention of Michael was simply unacceptable. He'd worked too hard to get Michael safe to put him at risk of the limelight.

Shifting in his seat, Stefan stiffened. "I have my reasons," he said. "And they stay mine. There's no mention of me or anyone else on my crew."

This piqued her interest. "So you do have a crew."

"I do have a crew," Stefan said in exasperation. "And they're not any of your business."

Ava worked her jaw, fingers tapping on the table absently. She fingered one of the papers, pulling it out from the rest. Looking at it, her eyes went from the paper to Stefan. "You're the reason it's on the move, aren't you?" she deduced. "I mean, it stays put for almost twenty years and then starts a tour of the lands south of the border? And you've got intel on it that predates its first move?"

Damn, she was _good_. The question was if she trustworthy or if Stefan was putting his eggs right into the fox's basket.

Leaning forward, he pushed the papers back together. "Some things are off the record," he said, his voice low. "You have to respect that, don't you?"

"Of course," she said. "But I still need to know or you're on your own. I don't cover a story unless I have the big picture."

He could tell her to walk right then and there. But she knew too much. She was already a part of this, whether Stefan wanted to admit it or not.

Swallowing, Stefan pulled his hand away, meeting her eyes warily. "A year ago, I broke into the Institute with a friend of mine. We extracted one of the kids."

Her eyes widened. "You have one of the kids? Do you know what kind of evidence this is? It can blow the story wide open-"

Stefan's shook his head tersely. "The kid is entirely off limits. You can see the intel. You can guess what they're doing to kids in there," he said and he saw her eyes dart to the pages, the bleak pictures of medical equipment and the details on genetic manipulation. "He's been through enough, and I will keep him safe. No matter what."

Her dark eyes flicked up to his, holding them for a moment. There was a moment of indecision, and he could see it in her face. She wanted to know more. She wanted to ask more. She wanted to take the story and run a friggin' marathon with it.

But then she nodded, lips drawn together. "Nothing on the kid," she said, voice carrying the hint of a promise. "But you'll get me my photos?"

Stefan snorted. "I'll get you a whole hell of a lot more than that," he said.

"I'm going to have more questions," she said almost in warning.

Stefan collected a breath, letting it out slowly. "Yeah, I imagine you will."

Ava's smile was wide, couched with excitement, and Stefan tried to remember that this was all part of the plan, whether he liked it or not.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: And this starts the fundamental conflict in the fic :) Which is why it's a lot shorter than the previous two sections. Thanks!

CHAPTER THREE

Ava was just one small part of the plan. While she was taking to her part like a duck to water, the other details were a bit more tedious. Though considering the number of times Ava wanted to meet to ask more questions, Stefan was beginning to question her self-sufficiency.

Saul made daily contact from his hotel room in the ritzier part of town. He deigned to come to the apartment a few times, but most of his work was done remotely, making phone calls and procuring various items and intel. While he was tracking down the getaway vehicles they'd need and some of the stealth gear that was easy to get without raising eyebrows, Saul seemed to be having trouble with the infrared scans Michael wanted, but he promised he was working on it.

Stefan was on top of the heavier stuff. An old friend of Anatoly's gave him access to the weaponry, but the key was to get it past Customs. They had a drop spot at a private airstrip just outside the city, and Stefan had every reason to believe that the cash he was forking over would ensure that it was a smooth deal.

Michael had the least to actually do, but he seemed to be taking it all the hardest. The kid spent most of the week looking tense, but doing a pretty damn good job of trying to keep it under wraps. Stefan could tell, of course, but Stefan knew everything about that kid. There was nothing Michael could hope to hide from him, not if Stefan made a point of knowing.

And Stefan made a point of knowing everything.

Even the things he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Like why Michael was sitting on the couch, just _staring _at him.

The staring had been going on for the better part of a half hour, ever since Michael came back from class. Stefan had to work the late shift down at the bar, so he'd been preoccupied with arrangements all day. Michael, lazy little thing that he was, didn't have to do anything except sit around and shut up.

Which, to his credit, the kid was doing.

Literally.

While he stared.

At first, the staring had been under the pretense of reading. Michael still had a textbook open on his lap, something very obscure about South American history. Sometimes a page was absently turned, but the slow pace was a dead giveaway that Michael wasn't reading it at all.

No, Michael wasn't reading. He was staring.

Stefan tried to ignore it. Just kept up his work, checking things off his to do list, and reassessing their entrance strategy. He had plenty to do, and he didn't have time for Michael's stares.

Because Michael's stares were never innocuous. No, Michael stared when he wanted something. Permission to go somewhere, information of some sort, a free four-course meal with an extra dessert. Michael still struggled with some of his conversational skills, so his way of trying to get Stefan to ask him what was wrong was to just stare until holes were burned through Stefan's skull and he gave in.

It was worse, not only because Stefan always gave in, but he always ended up saying yes. Yes, Michael could go out with his friends. Yes, Michael could know about what it was like to have a mother. Yes, Michael could enjoy that four-course meal with an extra dessert that Stefan was going to end up preparing.

Stefan never meant for it to work, but Michael could stare really well. Almost without blinking. It would be creepy if it wasn't so damn _distracting_.

All things considered, Stefan really should have been proud he'd made it this long. His previous record had been sixteen minutes.

But after thirty minutes of an unrelenting stare, Stefan's nerves were shot and his patience gone. Knowing his luck, the kid would go blind for lack of blinking and that was just a hassle Stefan didn't need.

Somehow, that justification made it easier to swallow his defeat.

With a sigh, Stefan put aside his work, looking up at Michael with an annoyed glare. "What?" he demanded.

Michael blinked, bicolored eyes large and innocent. He wore contacts when he was out, but at home he preferred to go au natural. "What?"

Stefan rolled his eyes. "You're staring."

Michael faked a frown. Poorly. "Oh. I hadn't noticed."

Stefan snorted. "Yeah, whatever," he said. "Just tell me what you want so we don't have to play twenty questions to get there."

Michael seemed to consider prolonging Stefan's misery, but he must have been feeling nice today. Either that, or he just really wanted to share what was on his mind. Lips pursed, his brow wrinkled. "Is Ava coming over tonight?"

"Yeah, before my shift," Stefan answered cautiously. That question had been too simple.

"And that's why you want me to go out to dinner with my friends?" Michael continued.

Stefan nodded, again with reservation. "Yeah. That and sometimes I need a break from trying to feed the endless pit that is your stomach."

Michael ignored the insult, which was a very, very bad sign. "So I won't be here when you meet with Ava."

"That one's not a question, Misha."

But the next one was: "When do I get to meet her?" Michael didn't even miss a beat.

That was a simple one. "You don't."

He frowned. "But why not?"

"Because there's no way I'm risking her outing you," he said as a matter of fact.

"But she's met you."

"Yeah, and I'm at least still technically an American citizen," he said. "You're more at risk."

"Are you sure that's the reason you don't want me to meet her?"

Stefan glared. "What other reason would there be?"

Michael gave a small shrug. "You like her."

"What?" Stefan asked.

Michael's expression was plaintive. "You like Ava."

"I like Ava, but I don't _like_ Ava," Stefan said. Then he shook his head, thoroughly annoyed. "And it's not even the point. Ava is part of the team. She has a job to do. That's all."

"Again, with the talking too much," Michael said. "It's a dead giveaway."

Michael and his damned psychology textbooks. "Not everything is about sex, contrary to what your mind seems to think," Stefan said. "This is about business."

Michael nodded solemnly. "You're deflecting."

And if he was, he was totally justified in it. "Watch your mouth, or I'll deflect onto you."

The threats of violence had never had much impact on Michael. He shrugged indifferently. "If you get to approve of my dates, then shouldn't I get to approve of yours?"

Stefan glowered. "What part of business don't you understand?"

"The part where you keep meeting with an attractive girl and every time I ask about her, you start to turn red and yell at me."

"Who said she's attractive?" Stefan snapped.

"You didn't have to," Michael said. "Are you saying she's not pretty?"

"No, well-" Stefan tried, but snapped his mouth shut. "That's not the point."

"So she is pretty."

"And you're annoying."

Michael shook his head, almost in disappointment. "You know that I support you dating."

Probably just so he could elicit details and tips. "Thanks that means a lot," Stefan said coolly.

"It might make you less tense," Michael offered.

A beer might make him less tense. Getting the Institute out of the picture might make him less tense. Erasing his history with Konstantin might make him less tense. Evicting the rat that lived in Michael's room might make him less tense. Getting a girlfriend, however, would _not_ make him less tense. Girls were a distraction he _didn't _need, especially when they came with reporter's notebooks and an insatiable curiosity.

More than that, he was barely managing Michael's would-be love life. If the kid ever got from innate desire to the real thing, Stefan would have a hell of a mess on his hands and the thought of trying to keep a girl happy in the midst of it was just not all that appealing.

"You are awfully tense these days," Michael observed.

"I live with a teenage know-it-all and a rat. Trust me, in my shoes, you'd be tense, too."

Michael smiled a little, pleased by that. "I can see how my intelligence would be difficult to handle. You did say you even went to a prestigious college and you still can't compete," he said. Then he gave Stefan a sympathetic look. "But it's not your fault, so you shouldn't beat yourself up over it. Genetics are what they are."

Punk ass kid. Sure of himself and cocky as hell. Of course, it didn't help that he was _right_, but as the big brother, Stefan wasn't about to let the little craphead get away with it.

Michael was certain that Stefan would never _hurt _him, but make a show of whooping his ass? Hell yes, he would. He was still bigger and faster than his brother, and better yet, Michael would never see it coming.

Kid never did.

Quickly, Stefan sprang, tackling Michael off he couch.

Michael yelped as he fell, cushioning himself with his arms and trying to roll with the impact. They hit the end table, jarring it and spilling a lamp onto the floor, but the clatter didn't even make Stefan pause. Trained as Michael was in multiple forms of self-defense and fighting techniques, he wasn't well equipped to handle a full out frontal assault. It was no surprise to Stefan when he felled the kid quickly, twisting him around until he had him in a choke hold that reminded the kid that even if he was smarter, he was _still _the younger brother.

Michael squawked, flailing for a moment, bucking vainly against him.

As Michael slumped a little, Stefan let go, knowing his point was made.

For a second, Michael just sat, blinking a few times before looking up at Stefan. "Wow, picking a fight," he said. "You must _really _like her."

This time Michael saw the attack coming and scrambled out of the way before Stefan had a chance to finish the job. Tucking tail and retreating, Michael grinned back from his doorway. "Don't worry," he said assuringly. "That winning personality of yours. I'm sure she likes you, too."

Stefan was about to growl a string of obscenities at his brother, but Michael slipped into his room, locking the door for good measure.

Sulking, Stefan plunked back onto the couch. Coward. A damn smart coward, but still a coward.

And Michael wasn't right, for once. He didn't like Ava. The kid was the one who was projecting and if it took pinning the kid to the floor to convince him of that, then so be it. After all, that was part of the gig when it came to being a big brother - keeping the little punk in line.

Yet, Stefan had to smile. Not for Ava, attractive as she may be or not. But just this, _being brothers_. To think of how long he'd waited for this and how good it felt. So if that meant a little teasing and a little ass kicking, then Stefan would relish every minute.

-o-

No matter what Michael wanted to believe, Stefan's relationship with Ava really was strictly business. How could it not be? As far as Stefan could tell, she was the consummate journalist and her attention to detail bordered on anal retentive. He was beginning to wonder if she'd been posted in South America because her bosses in the States were tired of having to deal with her face to face.

But still, it seemed to be working in Stefan's favor. Despite her annoying stakeout habits, Ava had all the makings of a sound ally. She picked up on the background of the Institute quickly, putting together the pieces and making pretty sound theories to build on. Better than that, her natural curiosity seemed tempered by an innate desire to do the right thing. She obviously wasn't as motivated to save the day as Stefan was, but Ava Leehey was ready to do her part.

More than her part. With the questions she was asking - rapid and almost nonstop - Stefan wondered if he was going to have to make her a full fledged partner of their little escapade.

It had started innocently. A few calls to check up, a meeting to discuss the details. Research, she called it, crucial to her story.

Or so she said when she invited herself over to his apartment a few nights later.

It was a weird thing, after he realized what he'd done. Inviting her over. Saul knew where they lived, and Michael had had over people from time to time. But Stefan's social life was still strained and mostly nonexistent. He had other things on his mind.

But Ava - she was harder to get rid of than Zilla when he was insatiably attracted to Stefan's socks (which the little bastard had an unnerving propensity for - Michael had probably trained the damn thing). Inviting her over had been easier than fielding countless phone calls from her. It had nothing to do with liking her - no matter what demented notions Michael seemed to harbor.

After all, who could _like_ a girl like that? A dog with a bone had nothing on her, and she was wholly focused on one thing: her precious story.

And that was what Stefan would help her with.

Still, the fact that Michael had a study group that night was extra convenient.

She arrived on time, her punctuality actually more honed that Stefan's. Her smile was bright and Stefan had to look twice when he saw the yellow sundress she was wearing.

"Hi," she said, holding out a box of chocolates. "I figured since you provided the place, I should probably not show up empty-handed."

Frowning, Stefan took the box, completely unsure what to do with it. "Um, thanks," he said, putting it on the kitchen counter. "So, uh, what questions did you have?"

"Just a few clarifications," she said with an absent shrug. "And I was thinking about your plan. Are you sure you've accounted for all the security in place? They're bound to have some sophisticated stuff there."

Eyes narrowed, Stefan felt himself bristling. "You're the reporter, remember?" he asked pointedly. "Not a tactical advisor."

She blinked, her face registering the rejection slightly. Her expression wavered but solidified. She pressed her lips together, head cocked. "Reporter, right," she said slowly, a strange lilt to her voice. She bit her lip for a moment, then smiled. "But I'm a detail person. Always wanting more. Drove my parents crazy."

Stefan could imagine.

Ava hedged for a moment, then continued. "Like you," she said conversationally enough, but Stefan could tell he was in for more than he wanted to deal with. "You fascinate me. I mean, this whole righteous crusade thing is one thing, but _you_. American, right? What are you doing in Bolivia?"

"Bartending," he said simply, the barest version of the truth.

She controlled her exasperation with a bemused smile. "And I totally _love_ the scar," she said, then caught herself. "I mean, you can hardly tell, you've done a good job with it. But I love scars. They are stories in and of themselves. No word count or quotes necessary."

Talkative, observant, and strangely rude.

She didn't need him to reply, which was good since he had no intention to, and instead she rambled on about a scar on her foot from when she stepped on a nail when she was seven, which then also reminded her of a story she wrote about a boy who got glass caught in his foot for seven years until it worked its way out and he gave her a piece when she wrote the profile about him.

He could tell her to shut up, but it didn't seem right. Especially since he'd somehow been coerced into inviting her over. And not when she was so inherently good-natured. Stefan was a trained killer, bodyguard for the mob, and he was being totally subdued by a reporter with a cute smile.

He told himself again that he needed her help. But why he was tolerating her endless rambling, he still wasn't sure.

Inside, Ava moved around the apartment smoothly, going from one thing to the next. She picked up a picture frame curiously. "Is this the kid?" she asked.

Stefan followed her, plucking it from her hands and returning it to its place. "Yeah," he said. "But he's not part of the story, remember?"

She nodded absently, continuing her trek around the room. "Not part of _the _story," she said. Carefully, she settled herself on the couch, all smiles. "But clearly part of yours."

There was something in the tone of her voice that unsettled him, and Stefan forced himself to sit to avoid dealing with it. "Yeah, well, my story is off limits, too."

"Oh, come on," she cajoled. "You have to throw me some kind of bone here. I mean, you're an American bartender, shacked up in the middle of South American with some out there scheme to overthrow a facility with unknown governmental ties that you say is raising and manipulating children to become killers. This isn't the kind of stuff that happens to just anyone."

"Exactly," Stefan said. "Which is all the more reason that I want myself out of it. Guys with nothing to lose aren't running around doing this kind of crap and getting their name in the paper for it."

She seemed to consider that. "True," she said. "But you assume my curiosity is strictly professional."

Was she hitting on him? It had been so long that Stefan barely even knew how to recognize the signs.

He opted to ignore. Instead, he laughed brusquely. "Then you need some new hobbies."

"Can't disagree there," she said. "It's a problem I have."

And one that Stefan clearly had. Michael was going to be home within the hour, and the last thing he wanted so this question piranha trying to attack him with journalistic know-how.

"I never would have guessed," Stefan said ruefully.

"So, you still haven't told me what your angle is," Ava said conversationally. She was leaned back on the couch, legs crossed. She was trying to act casual, but Stefan could see that the journalist in her was still trying to put it all together.

Stefan shrugged, keeping himself on the defensive. He needed Ava in all of this, and okay, he sort of liked her, but she wasn't the point. She was an important tool to end the cycle, and beyond keeping her safe, Stefan didn't have the time or energy to expend making new friends. "What can I say," he said. "I was born with a big heart."

Her eyebrows twitched, and Stefan could see she didn't buy it. "This is a little more than stopping a mugging on the street or volunteering at a soup kitchen," she said. "I mean, the scale of this thing? The risk alone is monumental. You'll be using heavy artillery to get in and out, which means you're putting yourself at risk for getting arrested - in South America, no less. And that doesn't even begin to touch on the risk of actually getting killed in the attempt. You know better than I do just what kind of firepower you're probably going to be up against."

Stefan refused to answer, staying stiff and eyes up and locked with hers. He didn't want her to see how right she was.

She sat up, leaning forward, resting an elbow on her knee and cradling her chin with her hand. "No, this is the stuff of obsession," she said. "Personal vendettas. Martyr complexes. Something pushed you into this. And it's a lot more than you've told me so far."

Her gaze was penetrating, hotter than the Bolivian heat. Stefan couldn't help it, he shifted uncomfortably. He'd been out of the game too long for this kind of crap. "It's sort of a long story."

Face brightening, she seemed to inch closer. "I'm a journalist," she said simply. "I love long stories."

Of course she did; that was why she was here. But there were parts of this story Stefan didn't want her to tell - couldn't let her tell. His role, Michael's very existence - if they were ever going to put this behind them, there could be no mention of them. Stefan collected a steady breath, looking back at her discerningly. "I told you when I let you in on this that I'm not part of this story."

She nodded. "You and the kid, I remember," she said. Then she paused, almost as if she'd just listened to what she said. "The kid. This is about him, isn't it?"

It wasn't a stretch that she would figure it out, but it certainly wasn't exactly what Stefan had hoped for. Ava was supposed to be a tool, a convenience, but she seemed dead set on complicating things.

Suddenly in need of air, Stefan got to his feet, going to the window. He cracked it, letting the tepid breeze waft over him. "Like I said, it's a long story."

Behind him, Ava stood, walking up closer to him. She gently touched his arm.

Surprised, Stefan turned. Her face was soft now, her expression concerned, but it was all Stefan could do not to bolt. He hadn't had a lot of connections in his life, and when it came to girls, Michael had made that an entirely secondary priority.

But seeing Ava here, feeling her touch him so softly - well, it was reminding Stefan that maybe Saul's patented pick up lines and Michael's raging hormones had the right idea.

Skin prickling, he didn't really know what to do. He had the sudden urge to kiss her, but the base desire was counterbalanced with his well-honed impulse to run.

"I'm not all about the story," she said softly, her voice almost a promise, taking the edge of her prattling and taking it to a level Stefan hadn't expected. "Some things are always off the record."

He'd misread her. Stefan wasn't sure if he'd just missed her signals or if he hadn't wanted to let himself see them. He'd spent so much time shutting himself down, focusing on the other things in his life that seemed more important. He'd never made a point to avoid romance, but he'd certainly never made it a priority either.

"Please," she said again, hand squeezing his arm for a second before letting it go. "I'm invested in this, no matter what happens. I mean, if half of what you showed me is true, this is _huge. _I just want to help you."

Stefan stiffened a little. "You are helping. You're going to run the story, no matter what."

Ava shook her head. "No, I want to help _you_," she said, emphatically this time.

Uncertain, Stefan tried to keep his distance. It was not in his nature to trust, no matter how much he wanted to. "You don't even know me."

Her lips quirked into a sardonic smile. "Call me a sucker for knights in shining armor," she said. "I've spent too long around guys who throw their entire lives away for a bigger byline. Then, here comes you, not looking for five minutes of fame, but to do the right thing. I swear, just by being with you this past week, I've learned more about what journalism should really be about than in all my years on the job."

Good words. Words that made sense. Stefan had to remind himself that not everything was a lie. Not everything was a guise.

Still. "I'm not the hero you think I am," Stefan said, shaking his head. There was no armor for him, just guns and bullets and a whole lot of cash to get the dirty jobs done.

She hesitated, moving forward, close enough he could smell her. "I don't know," she said. "Risking life and limb for some kid while purposefully keeping him out of the limelight? Tough guy like you, and I've got you pegged as a total sap when it comes to him."

A total sap. That wasn't exactly the image Stefan wanted to project, but he couldn't deny that it was true. "It's a brother thing," he said, trying to shrug.

This seemed to surprise her. She cocked her head. "Your brother? Really?"

Stefan paused. "Yeah," he said. "Little brothers can be a pain in the ass, but you got to love them. And he's a good kid."

"No, yeah," she said. "I just - I mean, all things considered, how is that possible?"

Something lodged in Stefan's throat. "How is _what_ possible?"

"How is he your brother?" she asked, clearly confused. "All the kids there are genetically engineered. They don't have families, and this kid's one of them. Complete with the eyes."

Of course she had seen the eyes. And of course Stefan hadn't kept those salient tidbits from the files.

Realization dawned over her face. "Oh," she said slowly. "You're playing brothers, aren't you? To help keep his cover. I'm so sorry! I won't say anything."

"No, it's okay," Stefan said, feeling his stomach clench and unclench. "It's just...I've worked hard to keep this one under wraps. No one knows. I won't let anyone know and will kill anyone who threatens to say otherwise."

She held her hands up. "I told you, I won't say anything," she said. "You've worked hard to get him out and safe, I'm sure. And you two play it really well. Especially the kid. He doesn't give anything away."

Of course he didn't. Because he didn't know. Guilt twinged in Stefan's gut with new vigor and he gritted his teeth, trying to pull himself together.

He wasn't quick enough. "He doesn't know," she breathed. She was looking at him, almost mesmerized. "You love him that much that you're letting him believe it, too."

Stefan felt his heart skip a beat. "You can't let on," he said. "When I got Michael out, he was a mess, and at first, I mean, I thought he was. It's a long story, but for Michael's sake, he can't know. He can never know."

Ava nodded, eyes dark with concern. "Stefan, relax," she said. "I don't have any intention of ruining things for you - or Michael."

He tried to believe her, forcing himself to calm.

She smiled, raising her hand to brush at his hair framing his face. "Really," she said. "I know why you're having trouble trusting me, but what you're doing here. What you're doing for Michael. I really do think it's heroic."

Stefan couldn't move, didn't dare let himself move. It was impossible to confirm or deny any of it - not without giving everything away. This was too close to him, something he'd held inside too long - and Ava was here, and she was beautiful, and she was so _close _- but he couldn't. The odd mixture of sex appeal and sheer terror was almost paralyzing.

Because the nagging doubt was there. Maybe he could trust her. Maybe he was a hero. Maybe he was ready for more. Maybe he could let Ava in. Maybe...

He was leaning closer, and she was leaning back. Her eyes were closing, fluttering, lips up in anticipation, and Stefan felt his body responding almost without his consent.

He could do this. He could let go. She could be his friend. She could be more than his friend. He just had to let go.

It'd been so long. These parts of him had been dormant for so long. It was more than being with someone, it was being trusted by someone. Being loved. Being accepted. Being human. Being _alive_.

Stefan had made the mistake in the wake of Lukas' death of cutting himself off. Michael would never want the same for him. Michael deserved better from him.

He swallowed, raising a hand, letting it finger her soft tufts of hair. The emotions were raging, conflicting. The fear of being vulnerable, of opening himself up. Letting someone know about Michael, letting someone know about _him_.

He wanted this. He wanted it so bad.

Ava's eyes closed, her mouth opened just a little. Stefan let his fingers string through her hair more, breathing in deep and letting his eyes close and just let _go_.

But then he saw it-

A movement in the doorway.

Small, but there.

Abruptly, Stefan stopped, eyes wide and alert. His heart almost stopped for real this time, cold fear washing over him with an intensity he hadn't known since the night he'd saw Lukas get killed on the beach.

The moment was suspended, hung precariously in time. For a moment, he wanted to believe he could take it back. Tell Ava to go home, tell her there was no story to tell. Close himself off, just like he was supposed to, keep himself in control, just like he'd worked so hard for.

Because if he'd done that, then it wouldn't matter that Michael had gotten home early. It wouldn't matter that Michael was standing in the doorway, looking far younger than his eighteen years.

Michael.

Stefan took a breath despite himself, and Ava startled, turning around, and Michael stood there, still and unmoving, eyes boring straight into Stefan, into his eyes, into his soul, and no matter how hard Stefan tried, there was no way to take it back.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Michael.

He was standing, framed in the open door. He almost looked like a statute, eyes wide, face frozen. His posture was stiff, surreally poised, but there was the look of a jackrabbit in his expression, almost as if he were ready to bolt. It was a look Stefan recognized, but one he hadn't seen for a long time, not since he'd first broken Michael out of the Institute over a year ago.

His bicolored eyes darted quickly, from Stefan to Ava, and back again, and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

He'd heard.

That inevitable fact settled over Stefan with a horrible clarity. Michael had heard them talking. More than that, Michael knew what it meant. Michael _knew_.

"Michael," Stefan said, his regret heavy in his voice. He didn't need to ask how much Michael had heard. The expression on Michael's face said it all. Confusion, hurt, fear. Michael had heard everything.

Michael had heard _everything_.

"Michael, I know what you just heard, and I know it sounds hard," Stefan rambled, feeling desperate. He had good reasons, good intentions, and he couldn't find any of them. He couldn't find anything.

Michael flinched, Stefan's words almost like blows. His brow furrowed. "I don't understand."

"It's not what you think," Stefan said quickly.

Too quickly. Michael didn't buy it. He shook his head.

Ava glanced between them, her face flushed. The mortification in her voice was evident, and Stefan might have felt guilty if the expression on Michael's face wasn't breaking his heart. "I think I should go," she said, slipping toward the couch and picking up her purse.

Stefan couldn't say a word to stop her. Michael didn't even look at her, not even as she walked right by him with an apologetic look in her eyes.

"Michael, please," he said. "You have to let me explain."

Michael didn't want his explanations. "You told me we were brothers."

"We _are_ brothers," Stefan said insistently.

Michael shook his head, his denial growing on his face. "You told me I was stolen from the beach when I was seven years old. That my name was Lukas."

It was that backstory that has brought Stefan to Michael, and when that had fallen apart, Stefan hadn't needed it anymore. Michael had, and it was something Stefan was willing to grant Michael as he tried to define himself outside the Institute.

It had seemed like a harmless lie, an innocent building block to bond them together, to give Michael a sense of self. As long as Michael believed it, it could give him the foundation he needed to move beyond how he'd been raised. Michael had never embraced it fully - insisted his name was Michael - but he'd slowly welcomed the idea of family, of belonging.

Stefan hadn't let himself consider what would happen if Michael found out the truth.

"Michael," Stefan tried again, looking for the words. "Just listen-"

"Listen?" Michael asked, his eyebrows rising in sudden, cutting surprise. "Listen to what? A lie?" His blinked, and looked far, far too young.

The broken innocence on Michael's face was heartbreaking. Michael had never seen it coming. Even though he'd doubted for so long, even though all the pieces had never added up, he had never seen it coming.

There was a flash of anger on his face, laden with hurt. "It was a lie, wasn't it?" he asked. "All of it."

It was a statement, not a question. Michael didn't need confirmation to believe it, but Stefan could feel by the tension in the younger boy's voice that his answer would determine just how badly this would go.

Stefan had no delusions that it _would _go badly. Michael had grown a lot since being broken out of the Institute, but he was still a teenager. More than that, he was a teenager who had been emotionally and physically tormented most of his life. The brainwashing at the Institute, the limited capacity in which he'd grown up, the things he'd been forced to do - they still haunted Michael, still influence who he was. Sometimes Stefan knew that the only thing keeping Michael sane was the promise of family to anchor him to another reality, a better reality.

The anchor was gone now and Michael was a keening ship in a restless sea. He couldn't know that nothing had changed, that the waters were just as they had always been, that Stefan was still there for him - would always be there for him.

There was just betrayal. Hurt and disappointment.

And it was all Stefan's fault. "Misha, please, you have to understand-"

"How long have you known?" he asked. "You would not have gotten me out if you didn't believe I was really Lukas. But you found out sometime. When did you find out?"

Stefan sighed, and faced the inevitable disclosure. "When Jericho found us at the beach house," he said. "When Anatoly saved us - he...helped me remember the truth."

Michael seemed to blanch. "The truth?"

Stefan had to duck his head, pressing his lips together to try to keep his emotions in. Resigned, he looked up again, shoulders slumped. "Lukas was accidentally killed when he was snatched," he admitted finally. It was a weird truth, one that hurt to say. "The shock of it all made me forget. I didn't want to remember. When I broke you out, I thought you were my brother."

Michael trembled a little, keeping himself rigid, as if on the defense. "And you didn't tell me when you figured it out?"

"Because it didn't change anything," Stefan said, almost pleading now. He held out one hand in placation. "You _are _my brother, just as much as Lukas was."

Shaking his head, Michael stepped away. "I'm not your brother," he said. "What other lies have you told?"

Stefan sighed, feeling his exasperation spike. "I haven't lied to you-"

"You lied about this," Michael countered pointedly.

"I just didn't want you to have to deal with it," Stefan said, hoping that Michael would see that everything had been done with the best intentions. There was no guide book for this kind of thing, no _How To Care For Your Long Lost Brother Who Isn't Your Long Lost Brother_. Stefan was making this up as he went, trusting his gut to keep Michael _safe_.

It was the wrong thing to say. Michael's face darkened. "You didn't trust me."

"I didn't say that."

"You also didn't say that I wasn't your brother," he said back. "Omissions can be just as telling."

Stefan ran a hand through his hair, trying to gain control of this. The ups and downs were hard on him, the ebb and flow of emotions leaving him shaky. One minute, he'd been ready to take it to the next level with Ava, the next he was fumbling to hold onto anything with Michael. "We just need to calm down, talk about this-"

"There isn't anything to talk about," Michael snapped back, retreating farther. "You are nothing to me, and I am nothing to you."

Stefan knew Michael was entitled some pissiness, all things considered, but that one hurt. After everything they'd been through - that one really hurt. "Come on, Misha, you can't mean that."

"My name is Michael," he said emphatically.

Stefan felt himself recoil, almost as if he'd been hit. It took all of Stefan's self-control to remember this wasn't Michael's fault. Stefan had some of this coming, and he knew that. The important thing was getting Michael to understand. Michael _had _to understand. "Michael," he parroted carefully. "I know this whole family thing is new to you, but it's not all about blood. It's not all about growing up together."

"So it's about lies?" Michael cut him off bitterly. "I _believed_ you. I was willing to _die _for you. I let you convince me to do things I never should have. I don't owe you anything."

Stefan could see the wheels turning in Michael's head, slowly parsing through the facts. It was natural, he knew, but there had to be a way to slow him down, to make him see that this wasn't all about logic and biology. It was about something more than that, a connection Stefan couldn't explain but he knew he couldn't live without. "Maybe not, but I owe you everything," he said. He stepped forward cautiously. Michael flinched but didn't move. "Nothing has changed."

"Of course it hasn't," Michael said, his head cocked uncertainly to the side. "You always knew. You could use me to be the little brother you lost. It makes sense. Psychologically speaking. You deflected your grief over Lukas' death by investing yourself in another relationship. In that way, I was _convenient_."

Stefan inched a little closer still, keeping his voice even, his eyes locked on Michael. "You were never convenient," he said. He had to laugh. "You eat me out of house and home. Every time I turn around, I'm picking up candy wrappers and trying to keep you from picking up too many girls. And don't even get me started on the movies you keep lifting from the rental store. If I was in this for convenience, this wouldn't be the route I'd take."

It was supposed to be reassuring.

The results seemed anything but.

"Come on, Misha," Stefan said softly, close enough to touch him now. "You know we're family in all the ways that matter." He reached his hand out, letting it rest on Michael's arm. A familiar gesture, a brotherly one they often repeated.

Only this time, instead of comfort, Stefan felt _pain_. Hot and quick, sluicing through him with an intensity that doubled him over. It was all he could do to stay on his feet and he tasted copper in his mouth.

Michael. Michael was...hurting him.

Shocked, he looked up, meeting Michael's eyes with surprise. He'd known Michael was powerful - he'd _seen_ what Michael could do - but he'd never thought...he'd never even imagined...

It exploded through it, starting in his stomach and working its way out, burning through his limbs, searing through his mind. It dimmed his vision and weakened his knees, and Stefan felt his consciousness waning before he even had a chance to make a plea for help.

This wasn't like Michael, not at all. He hated the abilities, hated what he was able to do. He used them sparingly, never in his own defense. Always in search of justice, and never once had Stefan been afraid that Michael might try them on him.

When it ratcheted up a notch, almost doubling him over, Stefan wondered briefly if he should have worried about it after all.

Michael startled, yelping inexplicably, nearly jumping out of his skin. Just like that, the pain stopped as abruptly as it began.

Stefan gasped, barely on his feet. Dark splotches lingered around the edges of his vision, and he kept himself kneeled over, taking in breaths desperately, fingers still clutched at his abdomen. "Misha," he said haltingly, craning to look into Michael's eyes. There was so much to say, but the only thing that came out was the question: "Why?"

Michael's face contorted, and for a second it looked like he might cry. But he pulled it together - barely - his entire body shaking. There was horror in his eyes, and terror on his face. He shook his head. "My name is Michael," he repeated, his voice almost cracking this time, almost as though he was trying to find some part of identity he could still hold on to. His eyes were filled with tears.

Pulling himself upright as best he could, Stefan felt the overwhelming urge to make it better. Michael was scared and hurt - and it was his fault. If Michael was this close to the edge, then it was Stefan's responsibility to bring him back.

The change in altitude was hard to stomach, and Stefan had to swallow hard to keep himself together. "Misha," he breathed.

But Michael shook his head, vehemently this time, a tear slipping free as he stepped back into the doorway. "My name is _Michael_," he said, almost desperately now, his voice hitching.

Stefan tried to move, tried to grab him, but Michael was faster - as usual. He darted out of the doorway, clamoring down the stairs at the end of the hall.

His instincts said to chase, but Stefan only made it a step before he keeled again. The onslaught was over, but the deep ache in his body was still there - pervasive and detrimental. It was impossible to say what Michael had done to him, but he had a hint of gratitude that it hadn't involved his private parts.

That was where Michael tended to attack when he wanted to take someone down. Sometimes he just shut down the flow to the brain, for a quick and easy impact. Whatever he'd done to Stefan now - it was something different. Something uncontrolled.

Which made sense. The horror on Michael's face hadn't just been about the lies. It had been about the power he'd let out. For as angry as Michael had been, he hadn't meant to hurt Stefan - Stefan _knew_ that. Didn't even have to wonder, not even as he clutched his stomach, walking in a staggering gait to his window.

An accident. It had been an accident. Michael's emotions were all over the place. While he normally exhibited extreme self-control, Stefan knew that Michael still possessed great power. It had never slipped before, but then again, Michael had never been in this kind of position before.

In all, the kid was a mess. Hurt and betrayed, and now guilty and on the run. And worse - Stefan couldn't chase him - at least not until he got himself back under control.

But as it was, he still couldn't stand upright and moving was slow going.

Swallowing hard, Stefan tasted more blood, but not as much as before. He had to believe it was a short-term thing.

He approached the windowsill, collapsing against it in relief. If he could at least see which way Michael was headed, he might have a better chance tracking the kid.

But as he stood to look out, the pain spiked again, so intense that his vision dimmed around the edges and he sunk to his knees. He gasped for air, hacking a cough instead, and his consciousness ebbed into nothingness as he sank to the ground.

-o-

Coming out of unconsciousness was never one of Stefan's favorite things in the world. It was the weird feeling of disconnection, of vulnerability. Knowing something had happened, but not exactly what. Worse, knowing that something was wrong, but not having any power to fix it.

For someone who had lived and breathed with the mafia, that kind of vulnerability was especially dangerous. Even friends could be foes, and when coming to from an unexpected nap, Stefan always had to wonder if he'd wake up with a gun pointed at his head.

Most professionals, of course, would have no objection to killing him while he was out for the count. But there were the sick freaks who liked to see the fear and knowledge in the eyes the second before it all went dark.

So maybe it wasn't likely, but the point was, it was _possible_. Anything was possible, and when he'd been unconscious, Stefan had no way of knowing if the situation had improved or gone all to hell.

In this case, he wasn't really sure it could have gotten much worse.

After all, Michael had learned the truth and handled it poorly. So poorly that he'd lashed out with his freaky chimera powers, made Stefan keel over with pain and bleed, before taking off.

Oh, and just to top it all off nice and grim, Stefan didn't even catch a glimpse of which way he'd gone.

On the scale of zero to _crap_, things were already at a double f'ing crap, so really, what did he have to lose by coming to?

"Stefan," a voice was calling him. "_Stefan_."

The concrete connection with reality was jarring, yanking him uncomfortably from his floating and tethering him to awareness.

"This isn't nearly as much fun as you might think it is," Saul's voice was clearer now. "I'm completely adding an extra charge for _unexpected bedside vigils_ in your final bill."

At that, Stefan scowled, blinking his eyes open to glare at Saul. "Count it under your excessive _miscellaneous _charges," he said.

Saul's face brightened, relief evident. "About time," he said. "The good doctor couldn't find any good reason for you to still be out. I was getting worried."

Stefan followed Saul's nod, looking at a pudgy man packing his bag in the corner of his room. He straightened, his almost obscenely floral shirt pitted out. "Esta bien, esta bien," he said with a wild gesture. "Lo digo, todo esta bien. Esta despierto, y todo esta bien."

"That's the doctor?" Stefan asked incredulously, wondering vaguely if he'd suffered brain damage in the process because even with his limited Spanish skills, the diagnosis didn't sound overly professional.

Saul stood, walking to the so-called doctor. They exchanged a few short words, a few small bills, and the doctor put on a straw hat, waving at Stefan with a wide smile. "Decansa, decansa, y todo esta bien."

Stefan made a face while Saul shuffled the other man out the door. "How did you find him?" he asked.

Saul turned back with a sigh, rubbing a hand absently over his mouth. "That's the only thing you can think to say?"

Stefan frowned. "How did you get in?"

Saul glared at him, plopping down heavily in a chair across from the couch. "You're fortunate that my many skills include lock picking."

"You broke in?"

Saul threw out an arm. "You weren't answering!"

"Maybe I was busy."

"Busy _dying_," Saul pointed out petulantly.

Stefan's mind was still having trouble catching up, getting lost in the wayward points. "Have you broken in before?"

Saul's face went blank for a moment, the anger draining. "I don't really think that's the point."

Impressive security Stefan had going here. He'd have to beef it up; if Saul could break in, then others could, too, and he needed to keep Michael better protected than that.

Of course, that could wait until after he found Michael again.

The argument came back to him with fresh intensity. The look of hurt and betrayal on Michael's face was etched into his memory, searing with the flash of pain in his stomach.

At that moment, he wasn't sure who'd been more shocked: him or Michael.

Stefan had never thought Michael could use the powers on him - and hell, the kid hadn't even _touched_ him. Michael was powerful, but he'd never shown signs of being _that _powerful. Michael himself had said that only Wendy had been capable of that stuff. It was impossible that Michael had hurt him without even touching him.

Though, when it came to Michael, Stefan was quickly learning that _impossible_ was a relative term.

"Alejandro thinks you'll be just fine, by the way," Saul assured him, settling back in the chair with his arms crossed over his chest. "Something about stomach cramps and avoiding local mushrooms. Just watch for continued blood in the stool, but he doesn't think there's any lasting damage"

Stefan made a face, somehow finding Alejandro's haphazard advice less than professional. "And Alejandro is a real doctor?"

Saul shrugged. "He was at one point," he said with as much assurance as he could muster. "Granted, he doesn't keep his licensure up to date, but in these tough economic times, who has the funds to keep it official?"

Stefan grunted, levering himself to a seated position. "I'm so glad that finding me unconscious and bleeding prompted such concern from you," he muttered.

Saul held up his hands in self-defense. "Hey, it was either Alejandro or the local vet. You're the one who chose this hell hole to hide out in, not me. I'm fresh out of contacts in La Paz."

Scowling, Stefan let it pass. Saul was right about that much; this had been his choice to come here. Well, his and Michael's. It had seemed like an apt decision. Out of the way, far from Stefan's former coworkers and off the grid from the Institute's stretching presence. And the idea of Bolivia had appealed to Michael, who, despite his cold ability to reason and rationalize, still seemed to hold onto something of modern day fairy tales. Not the kinds with princesses and princes, but Butch and Sundance, the great unknown before them and the promise of a heaven otherwise known as Bolivia.

Bolivia wasn't Heaven, but for the last few months, Stefan had hardly known the difference. With Michael, he had everything he needed.

Now Michael was gone.

"So," Saul said, clearly uncomfortable. He ran a hand over his face, regarding Stefan uncertainly. "Am I right in guessing that your little episode here wasn't brought on by a penchant for local produce?"

Stefan grimaced. "Gee, and I didn't have to even pay you extra for that astute observation."

Saul glared. "After everything, you're really going to make me play twenty questions here? I came in and found you passed out and bleeding. And your little buddy isn't even in sight. I know you're giving him room to grow, but I've never seen you two far apart for this long."

Saul was cocky, arrogant, and a pain in the ass, but he was smart as hell. There was a reason he was worth the high paycheck Stefan had to put out to keep him around.

With a sigh, Stefan shook his head. "He found out," he said, leaving it all out there. Saul knew most of it anyway, and even without client privileges, Stefan knew there were some secrets that were safe with Saul. He'd always had a soft spot for Michael and the plight the kid had gone through; Saul wouldn't jeopardize that. Not now, not ever. Not with his own Rosemary to remember.

Saul raised his eyebrows. "He found out?" he repeated slowly. "What, that there are food groups beyond sugar and grease? You're going to have to be a bit more specific here."

Stefan rolled his eyes. "He found out that he's not my brother."

Saul's face froze and as understanding settled in, his mouth opened. Then he swore. "And he didn't take it well, huh?"

"You only saw the end of it," Stefan said grimly, remembering all too clearly just how hurt Michael had looked. Confused, broken, and betrayed.

"I'd hate to think what he would have done if he'd stuck around to hash it out," Saul said.

Stefan narrowed his eyes. "It freaked him out. He didn't know what to do."

Saul held up his hands. "Hey, I'm not judging. The kid's already been through hell, given what we know about his upbringing. He's been trained to be a killer, not cope with the typical family dynamic."

"He was never supposed to know," Stefan said, running a hand through his hair. Gingerly, he got to his feet, one hand hovering over his stomach. "He's had too much crap to deal with."

"So you are going to go after him then?" Saul asked, a little hedgingly.

Stefan was surprised by the question. Any other course of action hadn't even occurred to him. "Of course I'm going after him," he said shortly. "He's my brother."

Saul nodded agreeably. "I'm just wondering if it's, you know, the _smartest _decision. Last time he saw you, he did try to rip your insides."

Stefan's face darkened. "That's not how it happened."

"Really?" Saul asked. "Because I seem to recall having to break the door down to find you unconscious and bleeding on the floor. All things considered, I'm not so sure the kid wants to be found by you."

"It wasn't like that," Stefan said, shaking his head in slow, purposeful motions. He liked Saul and he understood that Saul's point of view wasn't the same as his in this situation, but ultimately it didn't matter. Stefan's point of view was the only one that mattered and if Saul had an issue with that, then Stefan didn't need Saul at all. He wet his lips, locking his jaw, piercing the other man with a resolute stare. "He was scared. Confused."

Saul swallowed convulsively, keeping his composure with a visible effort. "I'm just saying that he might still be scared and confused," he said. "The kid may need some time."

Michael could have all the time he wanted - as long as Stefan knew where he was. He'd lost one brother, and he wasn't about to lose another. The ten years he'd spent searching for Lukas had been the hardest of his life, defined by obsession, loss, and loneliness. He did not doubt that losing Michael in this fashion would be just as bad - that his obsession to find his brother again would be just as strong.

And something he learned the hard way with Lukas was that the longer he waited, the harder it got. Michael had only fled hours before. The trail would still be there. If they were going to find a lead on the kid, it was going to be now.

Worse, if the kid really had used his powers without having to touch someone, that was bound to be wreaking havoc on his already tenuous sense of selfhood. Stefan needed to find him and _fast_, before Michael self-destructed completely.

He shook his head, more determined than ever. "That's a risk I'm willing to take," he said. "And if Misha wants time, he can tell me that to my face."

Saul sighed, clearly understanding his defeat in this argument. "Fine," he said. "You're the boss, boss."

Saul's acquiescence was a small show of solidarity, but after going it alone for so long, it was nice to think he didn't have to find Michael without backup. Saul was expendable to the overall goal, but that didn't mean that Stefan necessarily wanted the other man gone.

He let his gaze drop, containing a wince as he shifted on his feet. He was still sore, but it wasn't anything he couldn't deal with. Looking up, he met Saul's eyes. "Thanks."

Saul blew out a breath, getting to his feet. "Don't thank me, Smirnoff," he said nonchalantly. "Just be sure to pay me. Overtime for this one, because I'm working way outside of my comfort zone on this gig."

Stefan gave a short laugh. "I'll pay you triple overtime if you pick up a lead."

Saul raised his eyebrows. "Triple overtime? At that rate, I may be able to retire."

Stefan walked to the window, eyes scanning the street. It was life as normal out there, the typical crowd coming and going. Stefan recognized some of his neighbors, even a friend of Michael's from school. But no traces of Michael. He chewed his lip, considering the options. "Don't start planning your casino trips just yet, old timer," he said. "We need to find a trail, first."

Saul joined him, looking out over the street. "Any place you to start?"

Stefan sighed, turning away from the window. "For now, we start with a simple sweep. You head north, I'll go south. Ask shop keepers, vendors, anyone who may have been around for a few hours."

"So there's no one he may have gone to for help?" Saul asked, watching Stefan carefully.

Michael had friends, that was true, and even a few that were probably pretty good friends. But Michael was still shy in many respects, not overly inclined to opening up to people. More than that, if Michael was on the run, he wouldn't be stupid enough to hit up any contact that Stefan would be aware of. Michael was a kid, but he was a damn smart kid.

And more than any of that, the upswing in Michael's powers would send him as far away from people as possible.

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I think he'd go it alone, so our best bet is that someone may have caught a glimpse of him on his way out."

Saul sighed. "This is going to be a long afternoon, isn't it?" he said with certain dread

Stefan managed a small smile, slapping Saul on the shoulder. "Keep your search pattern uniform, basic grid formation."

"Basic grid formation, check," Saul said. Then he made a face. "I should have demanded double overtime."

"We'll take it out two miles. If no one's seen anything in that radius, we'll reconvene and consider our options," Stefan said, checking his watch. It hadn't been more than two hours, but Stefan had been on the run enough to know just how much of a head start that really was. They didn't have time to lose.

"It's a blonde geeky kid in La Paz," Saul said. "Someone's going to notice him."

Stefan sighed, looking out into the street once more. "I hope so," he murmured. He thought about Michael, if he was scared or angry. Maybe even hurt and alone. It made Stefan's heart want to break. "I really hope so."

-o-

Michael was trained to run. He was adept in stealth, well suited for sneaking away and evading authorities. That had been a big deal at the Institute, the ability to disappear, to hide. He had been taught to move quietly, walk lightly on the balls of his feet, keep his eyes trained, always ready, always alert.

He knew to keep to busy areas, that the best camouflage was unsuspecting groups of people. When the objective was to disappear, it was best to start in plain sight and work down from there.

Jericho would be proud that Michael had retained that much.

Who was Michael kidding? Jericho would be giddy at Michael's progress. Causing damage without a touch. Inflicting pain by the mere _thought_ of it. It was right up there with Wendy.

It had never occurred to Michael that his powers could continue to grow. That perhaps parts of them were latent. That Jericho had been _right_ when he told Michael again and again (and again) that he wasn't living up to his potential.

Michael was a killer. Plain and simple. Proof that destiny caught up with even the best of intentions, that Jericho was _right_ about him all along. He should have taken Jericho's hand in the getaway van and saved all of them the trouble.

Michael shuddered at the thought, tears stinging at his eyes. He didn't want Jericho's pride. He didn't want any part of Jericho's legacy. But then again, here he was. On the run, slipping around with the skills he'd been instill with from Jericho's teaching, running away from the only person in the world who had actually cared about him.

Stefan.

Stefan had taught him to run, too. He had taught him that the trick was to always keep moving, go, go, _go_. Use contacts as necessary, keep things well funded. Stefan hadn't been as good at evasion as Jericho, but still, Stefan had shown him reality while Jericho had shown him a measured version, the parts he deemed prudent.

Michael never would have run from Jericho if it hadn't been for Stefan. Michael never would have _existed_ without Stefan. Stefan had given him a chance at life. Stefan was his family.

Chest tight, it was all Michael could do not to cry. He was too old for this kind of thing, but it was hard to deny. He had never wanted a family - he had never even thought running was possible - but Stefan had changed that. Stefan had changed _everything_. When Michael had nothing else, he'd had Stefan.

He'd never really thought about it - just how much of his world was built upon Stefan. He'd never considered that it was dangerous to trust someone so completely. He'd never thought that Stefan could be another person controlling him, using him for his own ends.

Michael swallowed, pushing ahead. A pair of teen girls gawked at him, but Michael didn't slow down to let them get a good look. They were cute, but that didn't mean anything. Nothing meant anything. What could possibly mean anything?

He'd built a life outside the Institute, a life with a _brother_, and he'd thought it was for the better.

But it was a lie. People lied. They'd taught him that at the Institute. Trust no one.

They'd been right about that.

How could they have been right?

How could they be the ones who had never lied to him?

How could he make sense of this? If he'd never left, if he'd killed Stefan that night he broke in - he never would have felt like this, never would have felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest. It would have been easier. So much easier.

But he couldn't take it back. He couldn't undo it. Michael had staked everything he had left on this _family_, and for what? He couldn't take it back, couldn't, couldn't, couldn't. Couldn't take back jumping in front of that bullet, couldn't take back getting on a plane to Bolivia, couldn't take back using his powers against Stefan.

He had used his powers. On Stefan.

He'd almost killed Stefan.

The reality of it turned his stomach, and Michael realized he was going to be sick.

Feeling the bile rise in his throat, Michael ducked off the street, searching blindly. It was an alley, dark and dingy, but it didn't matter. He crashed to his knees next to a dumpster and hurled.

He retched again, acid burning up his throat, through his nostrils. He curled over with it and heaved again, fingers flat on the gritty pavement.

Gasping, he was crying now, taking hiccuping breaths as he tried to get control again.

He could still see the look on Stefan's face. There'd been pain - lots of pain - and surprise. Stefan had never thought Michael would hurt him.

Michael hadn't even meant to hurt him - he _hadn't_. It had just happened. So much confusion, so much anger, and the next thing Michael had known, Stefan was keeling over. Michael didn't even know what he'd done, _how _he'd done it, if it'd been serious damage, if Stefan had bled out after he left.

The thought made him panic and he jerked his head up, looking back at the street. He could have left Stefan for dead. He could have killed the only person in his family-

Not his family.

The bitter truth crashed over him again and Michael shifted miserably onto his bottom, easing himself against the dumpster. He had no family. He was born a slave and even though he'd gotten away, his roots were undeniable. He was supposed to die a slave, alone and used. All the nights he'd dreamed of freedom as a child - they'd been fantasies, just like this past year.

But it wasn't true. It _wasn't_. It couldn't be. Nothing could take away what this last year had meant to him, everything he'd learned, the person he'd become.

Michael knew he wasn't normal, but he was still a person. Chimeras _were_ people, and ever since Stefan had treated him like one, it was impossible to let go of it. Stefan wasn't family, but he was the only person who had ever taken a chance on Michael. The only person who had cared about who he was, not just what he could do. The only person who had ever bothered to love him.

Maybe that made the lies okay. Maybe lying was a part of family. Maybe they could have gotten through it. Maybe he didn't need a brother, but he knew he needed Stefan.

But he didn't deserve Stefan. Michael was no better than Wendy. No better than a rabid monkey in a cage.

Michael's head lolled against the metal and he looked bleakly at the sky. His logic didn't change anything. It was weak, it was wrong, but he needed Stefan. But how could he go back now? How could he go back after what he'd done? Maybe Stefan would have forgiven his brother - he might have forgiven Lukas everything.

But Michael was not Lukas. Michael was Michael. A killer.

He closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

It was over. The illusion was gone. Michael had no family. Michael had no home. Whatever was left for him out there, he had to make for himself. Alone.

With one more steadying breath, Michael wiped his eyes. He got to his feet, smoothing out his clothes. He had a little cash in his pockets, and it would have to be enough to get him to the next town. There, maybe he could make some money, bulk up his funds. Then he'd have to find some other place to go, someplace far away from Stefan and all that Michael had tried to build here.

Emotions in check, Michael ducked back onto the street. One cursory glanced showed him no sign of anyone suspicious following him, and he disappeared into the flow of people once again.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks to those who are reading and reviewing :)

CHAPTER FIVE

Stefan had always liked nightfall in Bolivia. There was just something about it, something in the way the sun shown through the buildings, something in the soft sounds of wildlife buzzing even on the city streets. People wound down, streets thinned out, making way for foot traffic. At twilight, he could see why Butch and Sundance liked this for their would-be retirement.

But that night, twilight was the worst thing Stefan had ever seen. It meant daylight was fading, that his time was almost spent. The chances of tracking Michael by visual correspondence of witnesses was decently likely during the day when Michael's blonde head would definitely turn heads. At night, Michael would stand out less, fewer people would be paying attention, and Stefan's trail would go cold.

That would assume, of course, he had much of a trail to go on. Saul had come up empty, not one single sighting suggesting Michael was in the area. Stefan had had a bit more luck, a handful of shop keepers recognizing Michael's description. The timing of the sightings made sense but suggested an erratic path, making it hard to know where to turn next.

And with nighttime coming, Stefan had to resign to the inevitable: he wasn't going to find Michael that day.

It was a hard pill to swallow. In the time since breaking Michael out of the Institute, Stefan had been loathe to let the kid out of his sight. Even if he was vaguely okay with Michael attending classes, he had not just consented to actually being apart from Michael overnight - ever.

But the grid pattern searching wasn't going to get him where he needed to go tonight. Worse, it was becoming increasingly ineffective. Michael was making better time and Stefan was rapidly losing ground by searching one block after the next. For every sighting he might confirm, Michael was probably another mile away.

No, the professional in Stefan knew it was time to withdraw and reassess. That was the smart thing to do.

It just wasn't easy.

Still, working for Konstantin had hardened him more than he wanted to admit. He could do this. He would.

By the time he got back to the apartment, the daylight was nearly gone, fading distantly below the buildings of the city. Saul was already there, sitting wearily at Stefan's dining table. "Did you know," Saul asked, looking absently at the bottle of beer in front of him, "that there are exactly twenty-two bars within five miles of your fine establishment?"

Stefan didn't reply, just sat down, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Twenty-two," Saul repeated. "And your kid brother didn't have the sense to stop into any of them."

Stefan gave Saul a rueful look. "But I'm sure you did?"

Saul grunted, taking a drink and swallowing hard. "I wish," he said. "But I only stopped at those with open air portions. Never has going to bars been so unsatisfying. No alcohol, no kid."

"He's headed the other direction," Stefan said. He reached over, pulling open a kitchen drawer and digging out a phone book. He flipped it to a map, focusing in on the right part of town. "I got tags here, here, and here." Stefan pointed to the locations.

Saul frowned, looking at the indicated points. "That's not exactly a direct path."

"No," Stefan said. "Which means we know he didn't vanish into thin air."

"But he might as well have, considering how little we have to go on."

Stefan slumped in his chair. "Exactly."

Saul sighed, pushing his bottle over to Stefan. "You need this more than I do."

Stefan eyed it miserably, but then took a drink. He made a face. "You're drinking the cheap stuff?"

Saul shrugged. "It was all you had."

Surprised, Stefan looked at Saul again and realized that the other man wasn't just moping over a hard-spent afternoon. He was genuinely disappointed. He pushed the beer back. "If you're that desperate, I'm not going to deprive you."

It was a testament to how miserable Saul was that he accepted the sub-par beer back. "So what's the master plan now?"

And that was the question. It was one thing to know he needed to pull back and reassess. It was another actually having a viable course of action. Because at the present time, Stefan was coming up with _nothing_.

Then, there was a knock on the door.

Stefan straightened, surprised, looking to Saul.

The other man shrugged, equally dumbfounded. "You expecting company?"

Nerves heightened, Stefan stood up. He opened another drawer and pulled out a handgun.

"Geez, Smirnoff. Remind me not to go cooking in your apartment without permission," Saul hissed.

Stefan ignored him, checking the gun's ammo. Satisfied, he edged his way toward the door. Although he and Michael mixed and mingled with the locals, they kept their place off limits. For obvious security purposes. Visitors weren't common under normal circumstances, and these circumstances were most definitely not normal.

He wasn't sure who would be stupid enough to knock on their door with bad intentions, but at this point, Stefan wasn't willing to take anything for granted.

Behind the door, his eyes flicked to Saul in warning. On the internal count of _one, two, and-_

Stefan opened the door, pushing his gun out in front of him.

There was a terrified yelp.

Stefan lowered his aim, mouth opened. "Ava?"

"Stefan?" she asked.

Heart throbbing as his adrenaline waned, Stefan shoved the gun into his pants. "Geez, I'm sorry," he said. "I just...wasn't expecting anyone."

She was staring at him, jaw slack. "You point guns at visitors when you're not expecting someone?"'

Stefan was adequately chagrined. "It's been kind of a long day."

Her face crumpled at that and she burst into tears.

If Stefan was sometimes strained when it came to Michael's emotional needs, he was completely out of his element when it came to women. Crying was a problem he simply didn't have a solution for and he was almost positive he didn't have the emotional capacity to offer others the strong shoulder they needed when the sight of tears made him want to run as fast as he could in the other direction.

Fortunately, Ava stopped with a hiccuping breath, looking mournfully up at Stefan. Given her overall appearance, she felt as miserable as Stefan did. Her big eyes were rimmed red; this had clearly not been her only outburst of tears in recent hours. "Stefan, I'm sorry," she said. "You must think I'm horrible. I mean, I never should have asked. It wasn't my business."

There was some truth to that, but Stefan knew that wasn't the point. The mistake hadn't been letting Ava get close; the mistake had been in handling Michael. As if he should be _handling_ his brother. He'd just thought it'd be better, it'd be easier. Stefan no longer believed that family was only blood, but in Michael's world of genetic truths and cold relationships, Stefan had just wanted to give him something warm and stable and sure. As tried and true as blood. He wanted Michael to believe that his DNA wasn't just designed for killing; it was meant to be part of a family.

Stefan had to sigh, letting his head dip forward. He looked at her again, resigned. He held out one arm in something of a welcoming gesture. "Come on in, Ava."

The look of pure misery on her face lit with a small hope. Swallowing, she nodded, slipping inside. Looking around, her eyes settled on Saul for a moment. Her gaze went back to Stefan, new concern blossoming. "Where's Michael?"

It was still so fresh, that the question actually hurt to hear. Stefan had to grit his teeth, steeling the remnants of his resolve. "He got a little spooked by the whole thing," he said. He shrugged stiffly. "He took off."

For a moment, she was silent. "Did he tell you where he was going?"

The innocent hope in her question made Stefan want to be sick. If only he had. He dropped his gaze.

"Stefan, I'm so sorry," she said again, with new vigor this time. She reached out, touching his arm.

Stefan looked up and met her warm eyes. They were soft, full of sympathy and regret.

"I can't even imagine how hard that is for both of you," she said. Her hand dropped and she sighed, shaking her head at the ceiling. "I can't believe I was so _stupid_-"

"Ava, it wasn't your fault," Stefan tried again, more wearily this time.

She looked at him again. "Have you found any leads yet?"

Stefan glanced toward Saul. "We've been out searching, picked up a few sightings," he said. "But not enough to go on."

Saul sauntered up, holding out his hand. "I'm Saul, by the way," he said. "I take it you must be the reporter friend that Stefan hired."

She nodded. "So you were in on the original plan?"

Saul gave a small shrug. To his credit, there was only a trace of flirtation in his tone and posture. Stefan figured it was a default. If he'd been trying, Ava would have been floored by pure testosterone, but even Saul knew better than to mix business and pleasure. "For what it's worth now," he replied blandly. "New focus is to find the kid."

Brow creased, Ava nodded, her attention shifting back to Stefan. "And how are you holding up?"

It was almost a surprise - to hear someone ask about _him_. So much of Stefan's life had been spent in the pursuit of Michael with such singleminded determination that he hadn't formed enough connections to make him on the receiving end of much resembling concern.

But looking at Ava, her grief was punctuated by honest concern. Heartfelt and genuine. Even if Saul had been laying it on thick, it probably wouldn't have made much difference. Ava only had eyes for him.

That would be overwhelming in the best of circumstances. For the moment, it wasn't even something Stefan knew how to deal with.

But still - the question was so innocently disarming that Stefan almost _wanted _to answer. Wanted to admit how scared he was, how terrified he felt. The guilt, the remorse, the _fear_. It was all so real, so palpable. It lodged in his throat, settled in his stomach, hard and painful.

He didn't have to say it, though. In her eyes, she already understood.

She smiled, small and tentative, reaching out and taking his hand, squeezing it gently. "We'll find him," she promised.

Saul clucked his tongue slightly, reminding Stefan that for as lovely and touching as the moment was, it was hardly private and it was hardly productive. "The trick will be, however, _finding him_," Saul reminded them. "You've both seen the kid. Hard to forget but pretty easy to miss when he wants it that way."

Stefan knew that was true. And he knew a lot of it was thanks to him. But there was a bright side. "Unless you know where to look," he said.

Saul sat back, shrugging his shoulders. "Okay, I'll bite, Smirnoff," he said. "You got some ideas?"

"When it comes to running, everything Michael knows, he learned from me," Stefan pointed out.

"So he's got your instincts," Saul concluded. But then doubt shadowed his expression. "No offense, but he's got some tactical know-how you don't normally exhibit."

Stefan let the insult pass. "If he stops to use it," he allowed. "We just need a step in the right direction. If we can find a trail, then we can weed it out from there."

"I have some contacts in the area," Ava offered. "Some sources that can probably keep their eyes open for a kid fitting Michael's description. It'll expand our search radius."

"It's worked before," Saul said. "Kid like Michael, if you're looking for him, you're probably going to find him if you've got enough people out there."

"But I don't want him tagged," Stefan said. "Michael still doesn't technically exist to the American government. If he gets picked up by anyone official, we might lose him - for good."

And that wasn't an option Stefan was willing to entertain. Ever.

"Not a problem," Ava said. "Trust me, my sources are far from official."

It was a plan, at least. Stefan wasn't above taking help from any place he could get it.

Satisfied, he nodded. "Make it happen," he said.

Ava stood hurriedly, pulling her phone out as she headed to the door.

"Ava," he called after her suddenly.

She stopped, turning back to face him. There was something startling beautiful about her in that moment, something in her innocent resolve, how she wanted to _help_. Like it was for Saul, this had all the pretenses of a job for her, but what she was offering Stefan was more than professional courtesy. Maybe it was guilt that motivated her, maybe it was because she liked Stefan, or maybe it was just what good people did in bad situations.

Stefan would hardly know. Growing up, loyalty could be bought at the right price. A good man made for an easy mark, and friends only lasted as long as a stack of money or a supply of bullets.

Stefan's throat was tight. As hard as this stuff was with Michael - these emotional vulnerabilities - it was so much harder with others.

Still, he owed Ava this much. She hadn't known the mess she was getting into when he first contacted her, and any sane person would have ducked out by now.

"Thanks," he said, and his voice sounded funny and strangled, but he hoped she could still see how much he meant it.

A smiled widened on her face, bittersweet and sorry. "It's the least I can do," she said. "You have my number and I'll be in touch the second I hear anything."

Stefan nodded, watching as she left. When the door closed behind her, Saul sighed.

Gathering himself, Stefan reminded himself that there was still work to be done. Getting in touch with his emotions, letting people see the real him - that was all well and good but it was still a secondary concern.

He looked at Saul again, who gave him a rueful smile. "I don't suppose our little do-good reporter's efforts are going to mean I get the night off, does it?"

It was sarcastic, but it lacked the heart of a real smart ass remark. Saul was tired - they were all tired - but that wasn't going to stop them.

"Ava's going to get some extra eyes in place, but we can still do it the old-fashioned way. This is our best chance to play catch up with him. Superhuman or not, he's still going to need to slow down, even if he doesn't let himself rest. We might be able to make up ground in our search grid."

Saul grimaced. "I should have packed my loafers."

"You should have packed your freakin' tennis shoes," Stefan sniped.

"You assume I own a pair."

Stefan fixed him with a no nonsense look. "With what I'm paying you, you can invest in a pair. Soon. Because I want to double our search radius, picking up where we left off before. We'll keep going the same direction and be more specific where we ask. He's going to need to stop to eat, and we're going to have to bank on the kid sticking to what he knows."

"Hit the candy shops then?"

Stefan barely acknowledged the joke. "He's going to stay in public places, avoid settling for a little while. He's not well funded, so he's not going to be able to put down much of a concrete trail, not even if he wanted to," Stefan said, walking through the process in his head. He could still remember their first flight, vivid as though it were yesterday. Michael had questioned him often, but when Stefan got him through from one point to the next, it was clear the kid trusted his methods, even if he did douse them with criticism whenever he got the chance.

"How do we know he's not going to hitch a ride out of town?"

It was a possibility, though not one Stefan particularly wanted to entertain. Traveling by car was by far the most efficient way to run, but while Michael had been complicit in illicit activities before, he wasn't inclined to them.

Stefan shook his head. "I don't think he'd steal a car - at least not until he gets a little more desperate."

"There's still public transport," Saul pointed out.

"If you run across a bus station or train terminal, ask around, but I don't think he'd want to close himself into anything like that." Michael knew a lot, but so much of it was still in theory. In theory, Michael could be a freakin' superhero. In reality, he was just a teenaged kid who was hurting and scared.

"Should I even ask when we're going to sleep?"

Stefan scoffed, getting to his feet. He shook his head, checking his watch. "Not if you're looking forward to some rest anytime soon."

Saul groaned, but got to his feet. "I've got to get out of the missing kid business," he muttered. "Nothing but trouble."

At that, Stefan almost laughed, but it was a grim humor twisting in his stomach. "Amen to that," he muttered. "Remember to check in. Every hour on the hour."

With a nod, Saul rolled his shoulders. "See you in the morning then, Smirnoff. Hopefully with the kid in tow."

"Yeah," Stefan said with a small smile. Even with all the bad things that had happened in his life, sometimes he still had to think that maybe luck was on his side after all. He had few other ways to attribute the fact that even if he'd lost Lukas, he'd find Michael. If that wasn't luck - fortune, blessing, or _whatever _- he didn't know what was. "That's the plan."

Unlikely, yes. But Stefan had always been one for unlikely plans. Delusions, optimism; tomato, tomahto. Michael was out there, alone in the city, and Stefan wouldn't rest until he came home.

That was his promise. That was his vow. That was just all there was.

-o-

Running. Michael was running.

He always found the term vaguely ironic. The type of running Stefan had taught him often had very little to do with moving his legs quickly. No, running according to Stefan was stealing cars, paying in cash, and keeping hidden in plain sight.

Not that Michael could really critique it too much. It had kept him mostly safe, a few mishaps notwithstanding. Running was easier when the person doing the chasing was a psychotic chimera doctor hellbent on creating enhanced versions of himself.

Fortunately, Jericho was dead. And though Stefan was good at running, he was not perfect at it. Therefore, Michael could assume that he wasn't perfect at chasing either, which could only work in Michael's favor, should Stefan decide to come after him.

Michael's stomach churned uneasily.

Stefan had no reason to come after him. Michael was a killer. A genetically engineered assassin. Any belief to the contrary was flawed.

Of course, Stefan might come after him to end him, put a stop to the threat Michael surely had to be to society at large. Stefan's moral grounding was strong, even if his will to act was not always so strongly motivated.

Still, Michael had to wonder if his desire to run was any less of an illusion that the so-called brotherhood he shared with Stefan. A happy dream. A wayward distraction. The things Jericho had kept from them all. Maybe for the best.

Head down, Michael shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. Not for the best. Nothing Jericho had done was in Michael's best interest. Stefan had been different, and Michael had ruined it. It was Michael who was flawed.

He wasn't running from Stefan. No, he was running from himself. He needed to make a new life, a new identity. Someone without contacts, without connections. He could live like the Institute trained him to, alone and anonymous. He didn't have to kill to practice the art of blending in so much that he could just disappear.

With that thought, Michael changed his course. Going straight too long would provide too simple of a trail. If he was going to find someplace new to go, he needed to follow the flow of traffic. Find a crowd, let it take him where it would. Where he ended up would be his next destination.

Not a home. Michael had no home. Michael had no family.

He swallowed bitterly, willing himself to believe it. Accept it. This was the choice he'd made when he'd used his powers on Stefan. It was better this way.

The street ahead was busier than the last, merchants along the sidewalks and open air cafes bustling with life. Michael's stomach panged with hunger, but he needed to conserve his money for now. Until he had a way to replenish his funds, some creative shopping would likely be in order, but not for a while yet. He was still too local to relax his guard.

With a quick glance, Michael discerned the area. The masses were vaguely familiar, but there was no face he recognized by name. Falling into step behind a pair of teenage girls a few years younger than him, he followed them, tracking them even as they entered the market.

Michael had always liked the market, often finding reasons to drag Stefan there. Michael liked all the people - the noises, the sights, the smells. It was alive, the epitome of freedom and individuality. Everyone was doing their own thing yet still joined by a common place, a common purpose.

It had seemed good to Michael, very human. Sometimes Michael had liked reminders of what that felt like.

Today, his stealth reminded him just how alien he was among these people. A single thought and he could kill any one of them. The old merchant selling watches - one blocked artery, and it'd be a catastrophic failure. The young couple at the nearby booth, a nicked vessel in the lungs and a long, slow bleed.

Even the teenage girls in front of them. Snipping their brain stems before they even had a chance to blink, three giggles cutting off simultaneously, falling in tandem.

The coldness of the thoughts unnerved him, and suddenly Michael wished he were anywhere else. His power was too real, and for the first time since he'd been broken out, he was starting to wonder if there was a reason Jericho had kept them so tightly secured. Maybe they were dangerous. Maybe Michael was better off on a leash.

No, better off _dead_.

The guilt was hard to handle, and Michael's regrets were not eased by those thoughts. It was a feeling of betrayal, too. To think of how much he had invested in Stefan's claim that he was his brother, and when it hadn't been true, Michael didn't know if anything had been true. If he wasn't a brother, was he even human? Was he anything more than the killing machine he was created to be?

Tears stung at his eyes, and Michael wiped at them viciously. This was not the time or place. Such weaknesses compromised him. He had to maintain composure, find somewhere to go, some way to get back on his feet until he could determine what the appropriate course of action he should take.

Suddenly, he wished it was a test. One of Jericho's scenarios. That it'd all be over and he'd get to go back to his room, put to bed like a good little boy.

But he didn't want that. He wanted Stefan. He wanted Stefan and the horrible purple coat. He wanted Stefan to call him _Misha, _to say they were still brothers.

Maybe, Michael thought. Maybe it was possible. Stefan had broken Michael out under the assumption he was Lukas, but he'd kept him around for an entire year knowing the truth. Maybe there was still room for him there, even after what he'd done.

But just as he was entertaining the idea of turning around, his legs buckled, his vision went dark, and he thought absolutely nothing at all.

-o-

It was a long night.

Stefan had had his share of long nights. The time after Lukas had died to start with, endless and formless nights, where he woke and slept in even, meaningless intervals. Nights had been equally cruel when he started working for Konstantin, the continual question of how much sacrifice was acceptable, how much he could give up of himself in the pursuit of his brother and still be the brother Lukas might remember. Even the first nights after finding Michael, of sleeping without closing his eyes, almost afraid to blink in case the beautiful illusion was shattered.

This one was longer.

It was not without its progress, which was the only good news he could muster. Picking up where he left off, Stefan had quickly found a few more witnesses, and he began to get a stronger sense of what direction his brother had gone. There was still no clear destination as far as Stefan could tell, and the meandering course smacked either of desperation or genius.

If Stefan had to guess, he would say it was probably a little of both.

Either way, he had to hope he was closing in.

That was the thought that kept him going, even as the night waned into morning. The party crowds surged, then dwindled, tapering off as the bars closed and the drunken patrons began their meandering treks home.

That made it hard to find someone who had seen anything. The crowds were too raucous to pay attention to wayward kids, even ones like Michael, and the few who may have seen something were too drunk to offer much in the way of intelligible advice. He hit up a few bartenders, but none of them claimed to have seen anything, which was probably true and not true. His own time behind a bar had shown Stefan that while he saw a lot, he actually took in very little.

Stefan sighed as he turned the corner. It had been nearly four blocks since he'd even gotten the slightest clue that Michael might have come this way - and that had been from a waitress on her way home, who reported possibly seeing Michael in the early afternoon.

That was hours ago.

The next street over was barren. There was a homeless man crashed in a doorway and a single bar owner locking up, shutting out his lights. Even the streetlights seemed to be flickering their goodnights.

Stefan refused to take the hint.

Determined, he walked down the street, intercepting the bar owner as he pulled on his jacket. "Perdoname," Stefan said, offering his best Spanish accent. "Estoy buscando un joven. Un hombre - tiene 18 anos y pelo blanco con-"

The man shook his head, nose scrunched.

"Por favor," Stefan tried again, stepping in front of the man to stop his path_._

"Es tarde," the man told him crossly, before not so politely telling Stefan he needed to sleep some time this century, which was probably exactly what his young, blonde friend was up to.

With that, the man brushed coldly by Stefan.

The man's refusal to answer just meant that Stefan still had to keep looking. Find someone who did know something.

He had to keep going. It was adrenaline now, keeping his eyes open, keeping his legs moving. Almost on autopilot, the default setting to never give up - _never_.

Moving quickly down the street, Stefan came to the homeless man, sprawled on his stomach, turned toward a building. There was a cardboard box behind his head, and Stefan could smell the stench of alcohol and body odor before he got there.

"Perdoname," Stefan called. "Senor."

There was a muffled grunt, but nothing else.

Drunk or not, Stefan had to know if this man had seen anything. Homeless people were about the streets often. With no jobs and a focus on scrounging, it was possible.

In fact, it was more than possible, and this lug was just going to _sleep_ while Michael was missing.

"Hey!" Stefan yelled this time. He lashed out with his foot, kicking the man in the legs. "Hey!"

The man startled at that, coming to with a gasp and a flail. His brown eyes were wild in the dark, mouth open as a string of Spanish expletives escaped his mouth.

"No, no," Stefan said, trying to calm him down. He needed him awake, not hysterical. "I just need to-"

But the man was on his feet, charging drunkenly at him.

Stefan cursed, barely sidestepping the lunge.

Undeterred, the man rounded widely, coming back at him muttering a string of gibberish that Stefan was pretty sure didn't make sense in any language.

The man missed again, almost going to his knees, but he recovered quickly, and when he was back on his feet, he had a knife in his hands.

It mostly just pissed Stefan off. That this man might have answers, and was trying to kill Stefan instead. For every good person in this world that Stefan managed to find, he also came across these, the ones who didn't care and didn't want to help. The ones who would turn a blind eye to a young man in peril, who would walk away when all Stefan wanted was a little help.

A little help, not a knife in the gut.

Stefan was armed, but breaking a gun out even in the middle of the night was probably not the smartest move ever. Still, he had to do something with this yahoo before one of them did get hurt.

The man was closer this time, and there was something of a sadistic glint in his eye. Some homeless were harmless. Others were too well entrenched in the streets to take any passing surprise idly.

Just Stefan's luck that he'd stumbled across the latter. Maybe he was wrong about his luck after all.

Heart pounding, Stefan dodged another blow, skirting out of the way quickly. Playing bodyguard was something he was good at - keeping idiots at bay had gone with the territory_._

Fact was, he could end this quickly. Hell, he could end it _permanently_. Sometimes violence _was _the answer, and he'd never exactly refused to use it when push came to shove. But he wasn't violent by nature - he _wasn't_ - and he certainly didn't pick fights with poor schmucks on the street.

Stefan knew he should just walk away. Disarm the guy and go on his merry way, but it was late, he was tired, and Michael was _missing_. All he wanted was a break - one lousy, damn break - and this idiot was coming at him with a knife.

And that was that.

One second Stefan was grappling with his self-control, and the next he was losing it completely. There was no one here to keep him in check, no younger brother to prove himself to. It was just him, his anger, and some moron who thought he was the enemy_._

Well, if he wanted a fight, Stefan would give him a fight.

The man was rallying and Stefan kicked at him, catching him in the gut. The man gave an oof, doubling over and Stefan charge in, slamming him in the face with his face.

The force of the blow spun him and he went reeling. It was probably enough to incapacitate him, but the son of a bitch was still twitching, fingers still curved around the hilt of the knife.

And what the hell - if he was going to finish it, he was going to finish.

He charged, catching the man in the chest and flipping him to his back. With the man exposed, Stefan snarled as he landed kicks to his torso.

Then, Stefan was on his bottom. He hadn't seen it coming - the simplest defensive tactic in the book. The moron had had the presence of mind to sweep his legs out from under him.

Stefan was barely winded, but shocked enough to give the man a chance to pull to his knees, catching Stefan across the chin with a punch. It smarted and his vision went black around the edges, but it was just the incentive Stefan needed to take his anger and funnel it into _rage_.

Lashing out, Stefan preempted the next charge with a kick to the gut. Dazed, the man wavered and Stefan got to his feet, directed the man's head into direct contact with his knee.

The man made a strangled gasp, flailing backwards.

On his feet, Stefan's eyes narrowed. The man was bleeding, face bruised, and Stefan could finish it now. He would, but he'd let the son of a bitch work for it.

The man staggered to his feet, from his injuries or the alcohol, Stefan didn't know anymore. He lashed out and Stefan moved out the way, letting the man dip past him gracelessly. Stefan let him parry again, still looking for the best opening.

Then, he saw it. The next charge had real force behind it, and it was all Stefan needed. As the man came at him, Stefan danced around behind, using the man's own momentum to push him headlong into the doorway where he'd been sleeping.

Crude, but effective.

The man toppled quickly, falling silent to the street, face down and sprawled.

Standing there, looking at him, Stefan could barely tell a difference from when he first found him.

He was still standing. His jaw hurt a little and his backside would be sore in the morning, but he was no worse for wear. It was all good to go.

With a solidifying breath, Stefan took the man's knife, pocketing it, just in case. Drunk idiots on the street was one thing - when life was tough, life was tough - but he wasn't about to let this moron go around drinking himself into oblivion while carrying a knife.

Then, the reality of his situation hit him, harder than a fist, more like a stack of bricks, right in the gut.

What was he doing? It was almost 3 AM and he was picking fights in vacant streets. He was supposed to be _looking for his brother_, not beating up homeless men. Drunk and armed was a problem - yes - but the man had been _sleeping_ when Stefan tried to talk to him. Sleeping, like normal people. But it was Stefan who was shaking down strangers in the street. And worse, he was acting like a thug, blindly forging ahead despite the mounting evidence that he was on a cold trail.

That there was no more trail.

That Michael was gone and Stefan didn't know where he was.

That Stefan had _lost _his brother.

Literally, maybe figuratively, and no matter how many people he asked, no matter how long he stayed awake, he was still screwed.

Just like that, Stefan's adrenaline went crashing, and the emotions hidden by the wave of energy swept over him with a new intensity. He could still see the look on Michael's face, the look of confusion and betrayal. Even if he found Michael, that wouldn't change that moment, wouldn't change how badly hurt Michael had been by Stefan's deception.

Suddenly exhausted, Stefan sank to the curb, dropping his head to his knees.

This was what it had felt like, all those years ago. The sense of loss when Lukas had died, so strong that he almost didn't know what to do with it. It threatened to overtake him, to pull him under into despair and it terrified him.

As a teenager, he'd buried the grief with denial. He'd let it warp him until the ends justified almost any means and Stefan nearly lost himself while trying to find his brother.

As an adult, he could not afford such a luxury. Because Michael wasn't Lukas. And Michael wasn't dead. If Stefan gave up himself in this search, if he became the kind of person he loathed, then he would be no good to Michael when he found him. Finding Michael was only half the struggle; rebuilding what his lies had undone was the hard part.

The part Stefan vowed he would do, with every ounce of strength he had.

But that meant he needed to start thinking, not just acting. The blind searching wasn't getting him anywhere. Maybe in the morning, leads would be easier to find. More sightings would be possible and likely. It would also give Ava's contacts a chance to start their looking, too.

Sighing, Stefan lifted his head, looking down the empty street once again. Stefan was no stranger to failure, but giving up was not something he was accustomed to. Turning in before the game was done went against every impulse he had. The thought of Michael out there - alone - slipping further and further away actually made him physically _ache._

Numbly, Stefan pulled out his phone, dialing Saul's number. The other man answered promptly, sounding ragged. "Anything yet?"

Stefan swallowed hard. "We're calling it a night," he said. "Meet me back at the apartment."

There was a pause. "Smirnoff, are you okay?"

"We need to regroup," Stefan answered, tired, regretful, but honest.

"We can keep going," Saul offered, the mustered enthusiasm in his voice admirable.

But the day was over - long over - and Stefan had to admit that. He was too tired, too emotional - from Michael learning the truth, to the outburst of Michael's powers -

Stefan was beat. Literally, figuratively, in every way possible. It was time to admit that he could lose this battle and still win the war, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. "In the morning," Stefan said, even when the words tasted bitter in his mouth.

"Seriously, Korsak-" Saul's voice was genuine, the use of Stefan's real name slipping in there easily, almost naturally.

Stefan closed his eyes and forced himself to say it: "This is your only chance to sleep and eat," he said. "So I'd take it when you have the chance."

That much was true, because the second Stefan had a lead, the moment there was anything promising, Stefan wouldn't stop to sleep or to eat or even to regret.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

It was morning when they got back, but the impending dawn meant little to Stefan. They still needed to rest, whether Stefan wanted to or not. Saul, for his part, crashed on the couch, asleep within seconds of getting inside.

At least one of them was keeping things according to plan, Stefan thought ruefully as he retreated to his bedroom.

Changing out of his clothes, he put on a clean black t-shirt, stripping down to his boxers. Throwing back the covers to his bed, he flopped down. There was a lump in his throat and a voice niggling the back of his mind, but he forced himself to ignore both, closing his eyes purposefully.

It wasn't a question of physical need. It was an emotional one. Stefan's body had spent ten years bending to meet the emotional demands he placed on it. He learned how to overcome fatigue to earn an extra buck. He figured out how to swallow remorse in order to do what he had to do. His job wasn't pretty sometimes, but he'd managed to pull in his conscience just enough to make it all parse. Sleep was something he took when he could, but he never craved it. He didn't quite have to resort to counting sheep some nights, but winding thoughts of Lukas had often been his lullaby.

For Stefan, those thoughts had been a curse and a blessing. They were meager, distant but vivid, like snapshots losing their clarity with too much use and love. But Stefan had replayed them often - still did - moments he remembered with Lukas. The games they played, the fights they had. The way Lukas' face lit up when Stefan got home from camp. The way Lukas had been so quiet after their mother had died.

Those moments had been his saving grace, the one thing that kept him tethered. Without them, sometimes Stefan often suspected he wouldn't have cared about anything. He would have just given up, let his life mean nothing. Lukas was the reason he got up in the morning.

But Lukas was also the reason he could never sleep peacefully at night. Because Lukas haunted his dreams. The small blonde head lolling in the water. A tiny limp hand dangling behind its abductor. The smear of blood garish on Lukas' head, the strained whining grunt from Harry as he died, the smell of the ocean as Lukas disappeared once and for always.

Stefan still had those thoughts, still dreamed those dreams. Remembering the truth did not lessen its veracity, didn't even always take the edge of the pain.

There was more than that now, though. More joy, more fear. More to hold on to, more to lose. Michael preoccupied most of his thoughts, and Stefan sometimes spent his nights cataloguing the ways in which his brother surprised him. Sometimes how he worried him.

He liked to remember his time with Michael, too. The plaintive look on Michael's face when he first rescued him. The way his hand squeezed Stefan's when the doctor was removing the tracking device. The soft breath of love on his cheek when Michael took a bullet for him at the beach house.

The good came with the bad - it was the story of Stefan's life. Maybe that was why his dreams were never simple; never happy, never sad. Just somewhere in between, bittersweet truths and hard realities.

His mind roamed freely now, and often included them both. Lukas and Michael. Two brothers, so similar and so different. Pure souls, pure light. Lukas laughed more. Michael made Stefan laugh more.

Stefan sank deeper, weighed under by the comparison, the same way he always was Because this was a story he knew, one he had lived twice. It was the same story of finding and losing, loving and grieving, holding on and letting go. Same stories, different endings. His unconscious mind explored all the possibilities he never let himself fully realize. Some nights he found happiness; some nights he didn't.

Tonight was not a good night. Bad days yielded bad nights and sometimes Stefan wondered if Michael had the right idea about Kermit.

But not even Kermit could do the trick now.

Zilla flitted throughout the apartment, and although Stefan usually shooed the little rat away when possible, tonight he let the furry thing curl up on the bed next to him because it seemed like they both needed the company.

Awareness was fleeting now, fading around the edges. His thoughts jumbled, running into each other and changing with the surreal passage of time. Yet, in the growing din, he was aware of what he was still looking for, what he was still missing.

His dreams were of searching. Searching and proving, always pushing to some indefinable point he hadn't reach, maybe never _could_.

But he still had to look. Even now, Stefan searched for answers, searched for truth, but the path was winding, unfurling through the streets. There were people everywhere and yet not a soul around. And Stefan would search and search and search until he found the beach.

It always came back to the beach. The beach of his childhood, warm and sandy. Hoof prints in the sand, galloping along the water's edge.

Stefan could see them now, both of them. Lukas on one, Michael on the other.

The same and different. Brothers.

There was the tension, pulling between them. To honor one without failing the other. It was a delicate balancing act, one of self-justifications and easy deceptions, but they both knew better, and so did Stefan. It was impossible to tell what they held against him - what was easy to forgive and what just cut too deeply, but Stefan wanted the time to make it right. He wanted the chance to save them both.

Stefan moved after them, feet slow in the sand, but they saw him coming. For Lukas, it was a game and before Stefan could catch him, Lukas had ridden out of sight, gone into the mist along the shore.

Michael was still there, almost waiting for him. He had the same blonde hair, the same bicolored eyes.

But when Stefan was close enough, Michael shook his head and pulled the horse's mane until she darted off into the darkness, leaving Stefan in the sand, crying, begging, hoping for them to come back.

With a gasp, Stefan woke up.

His heart was pounding and his eyes were wet. Shaking, he wet his lips, running a hand through his hair as he tried to sit up.

It had been a dream.

Blinking, he pressed his lips together, mustering whatever self-control he might have had to settle himself. So much for the idea of _rest_.

His heart rate was still elevated and his shirt was sweaty, sticking to his skin. Zilla was still sleeping next to him. Glancing at the clock, Stefan didn't know whether it was a good or bad thing that several hours had passed.

The day was bright outside. Through the open window, Stefan could hear the sounds of the street starting up, just like normal.

Except it wasn't normal. Normal was relative, he knew. There had been a time when going to work and bashing heads together was the norm, a period of his life that was thankfully passed. But waking up not knowing where Michael was - that could never be normal, just like it was never normal to think about Lukas' body buried next to their mother in a cemetery back in Florida.

Uneasy, Stefan got up. He was used to leaving Lukas in his dreams; leaving Michael there was a lot harder.

But Michael was out there - somewhere. The kid could be pissed as hell at him - that was okay - but Stefan could still find him. _Would _still find him. He'd make this right, even if it killed him.

It was that motivation that got him out of bed. Giving himself a sniff, he winced and slipped into the bathroom.

He made the shower hot, turning his skin red as he lathered up. He gave his hair a quick wash before turning off the water and toweling himself dry. The shower had woken him up a bit, washing away the remnants of the dream, but it did nothing for the growing sense of trepidation he felt.

After all, here Stefan was, taking showers, using fluffy towels. He'd slept in a comfortable bed last night and he could go into the kitchen and have a hearty breakfast.

He had no way of knowing if Michael had had any place at all to sleep last night, if his brother had curled up on the street like a homeless man, if he was going to have something to eat this morning. He didn't know if Michael was scared or confused or _anything_.

The good thing about nightmares was that they ended when he woke up.

Reality was something he couldn't escape from. Which was why he had to go out and face it.

Putting on a new outfit, Stefan ran a hand through his hair, taming it a little. He spared a minute to cover his scar - the last thing he needed was to get himself tagged while searching for Michael. It might screw them both.

Satisfied - or as close as he was going to get - Stefan headed out into the kitchen.

Saul was already at the table, nursing a cup of coffee as he flipped through a newspaper. He offered Stefan a smile as he approached. "I'd say _good morning_, Smirnoff, but I'm not sure it'd be true."

Stefan grunted a little, walking past Saul to the coffee maker. He poured himself a cup, taking a hot, bitter drink and letting it wash down his throat. Then he allowed himself to turn and face Saul again. "It'll be good when we find Michael," Stefan said.

If Saul thought to disagree with him, he didn't let on, and Stefan was grateful. Instead, Saul took a drink, pushing the paper aside. "I checked the paper just to see if anything suspicious popped up," he said. "Even called the local airport and train stations, just to see. I have a contact at the bus terminal who's going to keep an eye out in case he tries to skip town." He paused, jawing working carefully. His eyes darted away for a moment before he looked back, almost apologetically. "I put in a call to the hospital, too, but there's no sign of anyone matching Michael's description."

Stefan took the news for what it was. It was hard to imagine Michael in any of those places - getting away, being hurt. But it was the right thing to do, and again Stefan found himself grateful for Saul. It was nice to have someone to do the uncomfortable stuff every now and then, and even considering the idea that Michael might be physically hurt was pretty hard for Stefan to swallow.

Another worse...just wasn't possible, and Saul had had the good sense not to breach that unknown.

Nodding stiffly, Stefan took another drink. "His trail seems to have gone cold," he said.

"It got late," Saul said. "Work shifts change, people go home. People get drunk. It doesn't mean anything."

Saul had a point, but it was still a doubt Stefan couldn't shake. "I don't know," he said, moving over to the table. The phone book was still out, the possible sightings marked on it. Stefan had gone to bed without updating it, so he picked up a pen, straining to remember. "I got a few more sightings before I went to bed - they were pretty consistent."

Carefully, Stefan marked the map, adding small x's to the places where individuals thought they might have seen a blonde kid fitting Michael's description.

Saul leaned over, frowning at it. "How much farther out did you get in the search grid?"

Using the pen, Stefan boxed the extent of his search, drawing a line down the street where he'd gotten into the fight.

"Huh," Saul said. He borrowed the pen, drawing his own extended lines. "I made it a little farther out than you, but I started to lose possible sightings a little sooner."

Stefan studied the map, shaking his head. "It's like he stopped."

Saul gave a small shrug. "Maybe he got tired, went to sleep."

"But where?" Stefan asked. "These streets, they're not overly residential. This isn't a tourist area, so motels are going to be hard to come by."

"Kid wouldn't need a motel if he just squatted someplace for the night."

That was true, but it wasn't Michael's style. Even when they'd been on the run before, Stefan had always provided a roof over the kid's head - even if it was just a car. Michael was resourceful, but he did not enjoy breaking the law, especially not for himself.

Stefan shook his head again. "But the sightings stopped at twilight, not nighttime. Even if Michael did crash for the night, he wouldn't go to sleep at 8."

Saul tapped the table absently, trying to come up with an answer. "Do we know anything else about the area where we stopped getting tips?"

Stefan leaned closer, examining the surrounding streets. It wasn't an area he personally frequented, but it probably didn't help that Stefan didn't usually much prefer to go out. It seemed that in his old age, he was becoming quite the homebody. Though, not without reason. After working in the mafia, he was too aware that there were bad people out there, and he frankly didn't see the point in risking meeting any more of them then he already had.

Besides, with his job and Michael, his life was more or less complete.

But Michael enjoyed going out - he always seemed to be finding new places. There had been more than one Saturday when Michael had dragged him in that general vicinity, just to see what was out there.

Well, and to spend some of Stefan's money, of course. The stupider the item, the more Michael seemed to want it. Stefan always made a show about it, groaning and berating Michael's distinct lack of taste, but _damn_, if the kid would just come home, Stefan would take him on a shopping spree, no sarcastic commentary at all.

"It's mostly shopping and businesses," he said finally. He pointed to an open space on the map. "There's a market over here that Michael likes sometimes."

Saul blew out a breath, and sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. "You call the shots here, Smirnoff. I'm just following the money trail."

That was fair, even if not entirely accurate. However, this was Stefan situation to fix, and it was up to him to determine the next move.

The problem was, he didn't know what move to make.

Going back and canvassing the same area might be a place to start, but if Michael had slipped under the radar, they'd lose track of him quickly. But venturing onward with no clear idea of where Michael might be headed would get harder and harder the farther away they got. La Paz was a big city and Michael was just one kid - a proverbial needle in a haystack. Stefan knew from experience how hard that was to find, and he didn't plan on letting ten years pass before he got another solid lead.

There was a reason that most missing persons cases were solved in the first forty-eight hours. After that, leads were hard to come by. It hadn't been forty-eight hours yet, but Stefan could feel the seconds ticking by, reducing his odds of success with each passing moment.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Startled, Stefan looked up. With a look to Saul, who shrugged, he moved to the door.

The knock sounded again. "Stefan, it's Ava!" a muffled voice came from the other side.

The urgency in her voice gave Stefan reason to fear and to hope, so he crossed the remaining distance in a few short strides, unlocking the knob and opening.

Ava rushed through, harried and rushed. Her eyes were wide, her short hair unkempt, and her clothes looked suspiciously similar to yesterday's.

Stefan hadn't thought it possible, but apparently someone had gotten less sleep than he had.

Before he could ask her how she was, she was talking though. "I got something," she said, sounding breathless.

Saul raised his eyebrows. "Did you run here?" The tone of incredulity was barely couched in politeness.

She looked at him blankly, and Stefan could see the sweat beaded on her forehead. "I thought you'd want to see what I had," she said in huffing words.

"Which is?" Stefan prompted.

Ava turned back to him, her chest still heaving. "I put out the feelers like I told you," she explained halting. She swallowed with effort. "All the contacts I've used locally, more than you might think. I was hoping we'd get lucky, and we did. I just didn't expect it quite this quickly."

Stefan was watching her, seeing her mouth move, hearing the words, but they weren't quite clicking. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was just the sheer fact that she was saying they'd gotten lucky.

Her face split into a smile. "We got a lead," she said. "An honest to God lead."

Stefan's mouth was dry, his throat constricted.

It was Saul who stepped forward. "How can you be so sure?" he asked. "We picked up a few sightings all evening, but nothing concrete."

"How about video surveillance?" she asked.

Saul blinked.

Stefan gaped. "You're serious?"

She pulled a disc from her purse, holding it out. "It's why I ran all the way here. I got the tip early this morning from a guy I know who works down at the market. Some kind of merchant. It sounded promising - he had a clear description of Michael, so then I thought, that market is one of the busiest places in this part of town. They're going to have security set up to protect the vendors. So I followed up on the lead, and worked a favor with the security guard on duty and got to watch the feeds from the different cameras around the time of the sighting."

Stefan was still gaping and staring, and for a minute he wondered if his heart was beating at all.

She held it out further. "When I say we got lucky, I mean we got lucky," she said.

With shaking hands, Stefan reached out, taking the disc. Wetting his lips, he looked at it. It was so simple. A regular, unmarked disc. But if it was what Ava said it was, then it was just about the most valuable thing in the world to him.

This was a feeling Stefan remembered. The feeling he'd gotten the first time Saul picked up a clue on what they had thought was Lukas' whereabouts. The giddy hope, too precious to be ignored, but so precarious that it could not totally be trusted.

In some ways, it was easier to stay here there, to hold the disc, to hold onto hope while it was still there and not risk losing it forever.

But the hope was too pervasive, too powerful, and Stefan shut his mouth. "Let's watch a movie, then."

-o-

It was surprisingly decent quality for a surveillance video. Most surveillance cameras were mostly for show, the mere presence supposedly a deterrent to crime.

The footage was in black and white, but the clarity was better than Stefan had expected. It was easy enough to identify figures on the screen - a family with children, the wayward tourist, overzealous merchants.

Stefan was perched on the edge of the coffee table, as close to the TV as he could get without totally obscuring the view. He was only vaguely aware of Saul and Ava, both on the couch behind him.

The time in the corner started the footage in the late afternoon, and Stefan fast forwarded through the early part of the evening. Ava's source had spotted Michael right around dusk, which fit with the sighting path that Stefan had followed. Even less coincidentally, it was right about the time the sightings stopped popping up, making him more than somewhat anxious about what they were going to see.

Going to regular speed, Stefan kept his eyes alert. The viewing area wasn't all that large, but it was large enough that it was hard to focus on the entire flow of people at once.

But he would see Michael. He believed that, without a doubt. Michael was a part of him, and he could never miss him.

So when he caught sight of a blonde figure on the screen, Stefan was almost hesitant to believe it, thought it was perhaps nothing more than a manifestation of his confidence. But then the figure stopped, glancing around behind him and Stefan had no doubts.

Michael.

The eyes were intelligent, but the expression guarded. His hair looked somewhat in disarray, and he seemed to be moving mildly erratically. Nothing that would make him stand out to the crowd around him, but painfully obvious to Stefan's big brother eyes.

Michael was scared. He was hurting. If it were possible, Stefan would have reached through the frame and pulled the kid into a hug, no matter how much of a babushka it made him.

But Michael was _alive_. Better, Michael was _okay_. There was a relief in that Stefan couldn't even give voice to.

The relief, however, was short lived.

Michael was making his way across the screen, pace quick and light. Then, suddenly, with no warning, Michael's lanky frame went limp, sagging like a rag doll. But before the boy could collapse, he was neatly caught, hauled up close to the figure in the trench coat just to Michael's rear.

Stefan's heart dropped to his stomach, head going light, but he did not blink.

The figure didn't miss a beat, keeping Michael upright even as his head lolled uselessly against the figure's shoulder.

Easily keeping with the flow of foot traffic, the figure maneuvered Michael's inert body along for a few short paces before ducking toward an alleyway. Just before the figure disappeared from the camera's picture, Michael was swept off his feet, hauled into the figure's arms before vanishing entirely.

No one even did a double take.

And just like that, Michael was gone.

Saul swore. "No way that was just some coincidence," he said. "That was a planned hit if I ever saw one."

Paused on the last image of Michael, Stefan strained to examine the image. The man who took Michael was nondescript, obscured by the trench coat, but there was something about him. Something eerily familiar in the benign facade.

Stefan studied him, the bulky body, the dark, thick hair. The thinning spot just at the top.

His heart sank.

The man from the bar, the one who had been checking Michael out. Not a pervert, not even just some freak. "That guy," he said, pointing to the figure. "He cased us out no more than a week ago."

Saul squinted, leaning forward. "Yeah? You think he's from the Institute? I thought you said you got the son of a bitch who ran the place?"

"We did," Stefan said grimly, stopping the tape to rewind it. "But you know as well as I do that they've been rebuilding."

"You think they want Michael back?" Saul asked, looking at the screen again.

Stefan stopped it once more, putting it on pause as Michael entered the frame. "You got a better guess?"

"Well, I know you're not exactly the most popular guy around the block," Saul said. "I mean, I practice don't ask, don't tell with most of my clients, but I know your type. You sure whoever snatched him isn't looking for revenge on you? Maybe the kid isn't the real target."

Stefan started the scene again, this time on a slower speed. The thought had crossed his mind. That somehow his unfortunate timing in leaving Konstantin's service had caught up with him. It could even go as far up as Anatoly. After all, Lukas had been killed in a snatching gone wrong. If someone had gotten a trace on them to Bolivia, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

Which is why he needed more clues. Something more telling than the nondescript figure on the video. Stefan couldn't even tell what put Michael under - an injection or a gas or what?From what he could see, it looked like _nothing_. Michael had been fine one minute and then out the next.

It was the craziest thing. Just like when Michael had a wayward thought during a fight and got the bad guys out of play-

Stefan's chest clenched. It looked exactly like that. No warning, no impetus. If Michael looked like he'd been taken out by nothing more than a thought, then it was possible he had.

Sitting up, Stefan scanned with new focus, rewinding the tape again.

"You looking for something in particular?" Saul asked, clearly skeptical. "There's nothing there. The guy didn't face the camera, and if he didn't ring any bells with you before, I'm not sure he will now."

"We're not looking at the guy," Stefan said, starting the footage again in slow motion. "We're looking at the other people in the crowd."

"Okay," Saul said slowly. "You think it was a tag team effort?"

"Just a theory I've got," Stefan muttered. "Look for anything unusual, or someone familiar..."

A young couple, holding hands. A teenage boy with his hands shoved in his pockets. A gaggle of three girls, giggling and gossiping. A young girl, people watching-

Stefan abruptly hit pause, leaning closer.

He knew that girl. How could he ever forget her? It had been a brief encounter, but an important one. An angelic face, and an innocent pair of soft, pale eyes. He couldn't see their color on the video, but he didn't need to.

"Wendy," he breathed.

Saul sat closer. "What? Who?"

Stefan pointed at the girl, oddly still amongst all the movement. She was standing, arms at her sides, gaze fixed on Michael. "Wendy," he repeated. "The night we broke Michael out, she was the girl in the first room. I offered to help her, but she almost killed me."

"Whoa, you mean-"

Stefan nodded grimly. "The Institute brought Wendy to catch Michael."

Saul sat back, blowing out a low breath. "Damn," he said, shaking his head. "Kid didn't even see it coming."

"Well, there is one bit of good news in this," Stefan said, letting the footage play out one more time. He watched as Michael went limp, blonde hair flopping against his kidnapper's shoulder before he was whisked out of sight.

"And that is?" Saul asked.

Jaw clenched, Stefan steeled himself. "At least we know exactly who we need to go after."

More than that, Stefan knew exactly who he needed to kill to get Michael back. Once and for all.

-o-

It smelled wrong.

Cold and antiseptic. The harsh smell of bleach lingering in stale, recycled air.

It smelled familiar.

The smells of his childhood. A tinge of metal in the scent, and starched cotton close by.

It smelled like the Institute.

Not exactly the same. The air was slightly more moist, the space less subterranean.

There was light.

Lots of light.

Some artificial, some natural. Burning against the front of his eyelids with a sudden heat that made him flinch.

The movement revealed more sensations. Scratchy hospital sheets, a narrow gurney, sides up and locked. An IV embedded in the crook of his left elbow. No, two IVs, but he had no way of knowing what was in either bag.

He knew this. This was his life at the Institute. This was his life before Stefan. This was his _life_.

He squeezed his eyes further shut, desperate to slip back into oblivion. He had dreams from time to time, nightmares like these. But they went away. They went away when he woke up.

Frantic, Michael opened his eyes. The light almost blinded him and he flinched, trying to move his hands to block it out. But his arms were tethered to the bed rails, feet tied as well.

Panic swelled within him and he thrashed, but to no avail. His bonds were tight, unyielding.

With a gasping breath, Michael closed his eyes again, begging to wake up.

But he was awake. He was awake and he was tied to a gurney, hooked up to drugs, locked in a sterile room.

Michael's eyes opened again, searching it this time. It was different than he remembered, but the key points were still the same. Machines of all sizes. Tools and medicine vials.

The Institute. He was in the Institute.

It was a numb realization, too overwhelming to fully process. He remembered now, the futility of hope. Why he had never followed John on any of his attempts to leave.

The Institute kept him fettered and powerless. It was a world inside a world, where control was stripped from the individual, where genes were manipulated to both bolster potential and limit it. Here, Michael was a subject. A student. A _slave_.

Not a brother.

The loss of that sense of identity was profound. Tears stung at Michael's eyes and he swallowed hard, turning his head away from the glaring light as he tried in vain to stifle his sob.

To think it had been easier before, when he had not known about Stefan and what it meant to hope.

The absence of that, however, was his own fault. He'd reverted back to what he'd been created to do: harm, injure, _kill_.

Perhaps the last year had been a test, one he had finally passed.

"Ah, you're awake," a voice cut into his consciousness.

Michael startled, opening his eyes and trying to blink away his tears. One slipped free, but he had no way of hiding it.

A figured walked closer. Again, familiar, but not exactly who he had expected. Logically, Michael knew Jericho was dead, but this was his kingdom. These were his parlor games.

It was a man, older than Jericho. He was not as impressive, gray hair thin and wild. His glasses were dark rimmed and slipping down his nose. Michael did not remember him from the previous Institute, but the white lab coat and cold smile were the only identifying markers that mattered.

The man walked closer, pausing at Michael's bedside. His expression was curious as he gazed down. "Funny, you do not look nearly as impressive as when I first met you," he said. "Do you remember me?"

Michael's brow furrowed and his throat tightened. He had stopped looking at the workers at the Institute as people. He had stopped seeing them as individuals. Mindless white coats, drones with tasers, ushering him back and forth, back and forth in an endless cycle of futility.

The man's smile widened. "I was very nearly your undoing, Michael," he said, his tone almost friendly, but Michael could read the cruel intention in his eyes. "Though perhaps you have not learned that even the frail and dying can be your enemy. Sometimes the greatest threats are the ones you pity."

Michael blinked, mind scrambling. Back, past the last twenty-four hours. Back, before settling in Bolivia. Back, when he still thought that Stefan could be a crazy man.

Dr. Bellucci. Jericho's old friend. Michael had been so intent on what the older man had had to tell them, that he had not been attuned to the finer points of what he looked like. Even when he found out who had betrayed them, it had not seemed relevant to commit this man into memory. Michael had enough demons in his nightmares; he had not wanted to add another.

He had no choice now.

Dr. Bellucci nodded, clearly pleased. "So you do remember," he said. Then he turned to the equipment, checking something and pushing a few buttons. He moved swiftly to the IVs, changing the flow on one and changing the other out entirely. "And you may as well speak, nothing we've done to you has impaired you in that way. Wendy is quite precise."

Michael flinched at the name.

Dr. Bellucci smile, amused. "Yes, you remember Wendy," he mused. "Quite a girl, that one. Jericho believed he could get a most high price for her, but I see her as a more invaluable asset. What's the need for extra security details when I just need one of her to stop anyone - chimera or otherwise - with a blink of her eye?"

That made sense. It was logical. Wendy had grown in power, clearly, which meant they could train and hone their skills.

More than that, it explained how he got here - why he'd never seen it coming. Because he hadn't seen it coming. Not at all. One minute he'd been walking through the market, the next he'd been unconscious. No threat Michael was aware of could down him so efficiently except for someone with his own powers. "She captured me," he said, surprised at how dry his voice sounded. His throat was parched, dry and sticky.

The doctor seemed to wince at his words. "Yes," he said. "She made your reacquisition quite perfunctory."

Michael swallowed, trying to work some saliva into his mouth. "How long have I been here?" he asked, eyes wandering the room again. Before, he never would have asked such questions. But his natural curiosity was harder to suppress now. It was harder to accept that this was a fate he had to be resigned to.

The doctor shrugged, walking to a table and picking up a chart. He made a notation. "Just over a day," he said. "Wendy has gotten quite adept at managing just how long to keep someone impaired until I am ready to deal with them."

Over a day. Which meant they could have traveled a sizable distance. Especially since any transportation would not have been public. All things considered, it was likely that he was at the compound Saul had identified. The one they'd planned on breaking into and putting a stop to.

Michael had never liked Stefan's plan. If they'd only known getting in would be _this _easy.

Getting out, however, was the trick. This place didn't have escape routes. It had two ways out, and Michael didn't care what had happened, he would never be the product they wanted. Now more than ever. Death would be an acceptable release. Perhaps even just. Michael was not a good person. Good people did not harm those who tried to help them.

"You can't reintegrate me into the system," Michael blurted, his face flushing with the decision. It was tantamount to a suicide request, and he could not make it lightly.

Dr. Bellucci looked vaguely surprised, a bemused expression on his face as he put the chart down. Casually, he meandered to Michael's bedside. "I have no desire to reintegrate you into anything."

Michael stiffened. He had liked the notion that it had been his choice, but the end result was all that mattered. He nodded. "Then why am I still alive?"

Eyebrows raised, the doctor cocked his head. "You are of no value to me dead, Michael."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "I will never be ready for graduation. You can't use me like you do Wendy. What value am I to you?"

Dr. Bellucci's lips quirked into a smile. "I'm a scientist, Michael, not a business man. Don't forget that. My goal is not a single experiment, but the whole. Failures are part of the process. Each one can get me closer to success. This is where Jericho made a scientific oversight. He did not tolerate his failures. He destroyed them and by destroying them, he destroyed all chances he had to learn from them."

Michael's heart skipped a beat, his palms feeling clammy. Sweat broke out across his forehead. He had known how to fear before, when he had thought he had nothing to lose. Fear was palpable now, an acute feeling gnawing at the pit of his stomach. "What do you want with me?"

He had wanted the question to be strong, sure, but it sounded weak and meager, even to himself.

"Simple," the doctor said amicably. "I plan on studying you. Analyzing you in every way I can think of." The friendly tone took on a sinister undercurrent, the glint in his eyes turning malicious. "Take you apart, piece by piece, until I can see just where Jericho went wrong with you. There is a glitch somewhere, and I intend to find it and eradicate it by all means possible."

The words were spoken calmly. Factually. Almost in anticipation. Yet, it was a death sentence for Michael. More than that even; it was a promise of inevitable torture, of endless probing. If he had been a slave before, he was nothing but an _object_ now. Devoid not only of rights, but of all humanity. He would not be granted the asylum of sleep or the right to move of his own volition. A lab rat, not even entitled to wander a maze until his death.

Dr. Bellucci smiled again, patting Michael benignly on the arm. "Don't worry, Michael," he said soothingly. "I'm sure it will hurt, but you can take solace in knowing that your suffering will help your brothers and sisters to be more prosperous. You will be helping us all. Now, please, rest. You will want to ready yourself before we begin."

With that, Dr. Bellucci left, the door shutting behind him with a forlorn click. There wasn't even a lock on the door - not even the simplest measure of security - and Michael was as trapped as he'd ever been. Because where could he go? What could he do? Even if he could find it in himself to kill the doctor (the way he'd hurt Stefan), he would get no farther than the door before Wendy took him out. Wendy was probably out there now, waiting for him, a whole compound full of children who would see him as a test they could pass to earn their graduation.

And there was no purpose in it. No meaning in escape. What life did he have? He was no one's brother. He wasn't even anyone's friend, because friends didn't try to kill each other with their minds.

Throat tight, Michael turned his head away. The room was cold and empty, and Michael stared with dry, blank eyes at the wall. He had never believed he could escape before. The long monotony of his life had been a quiet hell, a slow suicide he had not wanted to avoid.

He wanted to avoid it now. He missed his apartment on the third floor, its view of the bustling street. He missed his classes, the other people he'd met. He missed the food, the games, the movies. He missed finding things to decorate his room, he missed eating out at the bar with Stefan.

Stefan.

He missed Stefan.

Stefan wasn't coming. Michael had made sure of that. One of the problems with free will, he realized bitterly, was the right to take everything good and throw it all away. Stefan had not rejected him even when he wasn't his brother. But Michael had been too hurt to see it.

It was a scary thing, not just being locked up and helpless, but knowing the only hope he would have had for escape was the one he'd laid out bleeding on the floor.

Michael was sorry and Michael was hurt and Michael was _scared_.

He blinked, suppressing a shudder as he lay limp on the bed. It had been a fantasy. Michael couldn't go back to that, couldn't go back to the way things were, not even if he wanted to.

Michael closed his eyes, taking in a stuttering breath. It was a pointless debate, emotions that had no purpose or weight. Because Michael had made his choice, made it clear as pain in the gut and blood in the mouth. Hope could not exist where it was murdered, and Michael had to accept once and for all that he was alone.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Patience was a virtue.

At this point in Stefan's life, however, it was pretty much a forgone conclusion that Stefan was _not _a virtuous man.

And he sure as hell wasn't very patient.

Sure, he had his moments. He could be the epitome of self-control when it came to Michael. He could suffer through anything that kid threw at him, from ridiculous bouts of hunger to inane shopping sprees and even the odd conversations the kid seemed to bring up from time to time. Like the nature of diplomatic ties in the Middle East. Or why butter was far superior to margarine.

Stefan even had patience for Michael's more vulnerable side - he had the most patience then. Even if it wasn't in his comfort zone, Stefan would sit and listen in the middle of the night to any nightmare. He would let Michael talk about any memory he chose to share. That was all part of being a big brother.

But being patient while looking for a lead to find said little brother?

Not exactly a situation in which Stefan had full grasp of his self-control.

The surveillance video had been a huge find - Stefan wasn't arguing that - and it did narrow their list of suspects substantially. Wendy's presence was not a coincidence, and it really didn't bode well for Michael. At least if it had been the mafia that took Michael, chances were there would be some kind of ransom request or some contact in the very least. The whole point of using a kidnapping as leverage was to lord it over the intended target.

The Institute, however, wasn't after Stefan. Sure, they might want to off him just out of principle or maybe for how much he now knew about their smarmy organization, but their primary goal was clearly Michael. Now that they had him, Stefan couldn't think of any reason why they'd ever try to get in contact with him. If anything, they'd be packing up shop and trying to book before Stefan organized an attack on their facility.

Which was why Stefan was going to plan an attack on the facility.

Tonight.

It was a bit of a stretch, but not too much of one. Stefan had been prepared for this job before, and all the pieces were still in place. Saul had his equipment gathered and Stefan had picked up his weapons the day Michael ran away. When he had told Michael that he didn't have to come, he'd been serious. Though his plans had included Michael, he'd thought of it primarily as a two-man job. He and Saul could pull this off.

They would pull it off because when Stefan ran out of patience, he ran out of just about everything else, too: politeness, cordially, _humanity_.

All things considered, it was as ready as Stefan needed to be. His nerves were on edge, his mind was sharp, and his trigger finger was damn near twitchy. He just needed Saul and Ava to get here, then they could pack up and head out.

Simple.

Until Saul showed up.

Stefan was good at reading people - he had to be - and Scozinsky had a lot of looks: horny, blase, annoying, perturbed - but disappointed was not one he wore often.

In fact, Saul was practically hedging, scratching the back of his neck, looking like someone had just run over his damn dog.

Stefan sort of wanted to run over someone's damn dog because he was about to hear bad news and he really, really, _really _didn't want to hear bad news.

"It's a no go," Saul said finally. The words were stark, his expression plaintive.

Stefan resisted the urge to laugh. He was already strapped with weaponry, the last pieces of his artillery on the table, half packed into a duffle. "You better have a good reason for telling me that right now, because at this point, I'm going to shoot something, and if it's not one of those sons of bitches-"

"It's a front," Saul said, and he held up a file in his hand. "The entire damn thing's a front."

The words resounded hollowly in Stefan's head, sounding more absurd each time he heard them. He shook his head, a smile of incredulity on his face. "That's not possible," he said. "You're the one who found them there. We have a money trail linking them there, we have a guarded patrol on the outside, all the obscure governmental ties you could want. This is the place."

Saul kept the file extended. "Take a look for yourself," he said. "I'm sorry."

Numbly, Stefan put down the gun he'd been loading, resting it heavily on the table. His fingers clenched around the file. Flipping it open, he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

"It's the infrared scan Michael wanted," Saul continued. "He thought we could see where the children were concentrated, help us organize our efforts."

"But it's blank," Stefan said. He looked up, meeting Saul's eyes in disbelief.

Saul nodded, lips pursed. "A full armored guard on the perimeter, but not a soul inside. Not even a sign of any significant electrical output. It's a dummy operation."

The words made sense. Saul's conclusion was invariably right. And yet, Stefan could bring himself to accept it. The denial was rising in him, threatening to choke him, dimming his vision around the edges. To think all their hard work might lead to nothing - to think that their only viable lead was a dead end - to think that they had to start _over_-

To think that Michael was gone and they didn't know where he was.

To think that they might never find him.

His heart was pounding, his eyes drying out. His palms began to sweat and he had to swallow convulsively to keep his stomach in check.

What was he going to do?

It was a dummy operation. A false lead. Michael was gone and he didn't know where-

And he didn't know what to do.

He'd worked hard to keep panic and disappointment at bay throughout the entire process, so focused on the end goal that he hadn't let himself dwell on the current situation. But the end goal was only getting further away - hell, it was damn near unattainable - and the terror of failure was beginning to take its hold.

Ten years he'd spent looking for Lukas only to find out he'd lost that fight before it began.

And this felt exactly the same. The failure, the guilt, the helplessness. But what could he do? What could he do?

Then, someone knocked at the door.

The rapping was so sudden, that Stefan thought for a moment he imagined it.

When Saul asked, "Do you want me to get it?" Stefan realized it was real.

Real. Just like the infrared scans that said no one was in the compound.

Stiffly, the file still in his hand, he walked to the door. He didn't even bother to check who it was. At this point, he almost wished it were someone out to get him.

When he opened it, Ava was there. She flounced a little, breezing past him. "I hope you two realize how nice I am to you," she said. "Do you know how many favors I had to call in to guarantee a wide-spread release without giving my editor the scoop? Let me tell you - hard."

She paused, looking from Saul, who was still standing at the table, then back to Stefan, who was clutching the sheet at the still-open door.

Spirits dampened, Ava hedged. "Did I miss something?"

Only the sound of their plan, crashing and burning before their very eyes. Nothing big.

Fortunately, Saul took the lead. "We've hit a bit of a snag," he said.

That was the understatement the century. Hell, the whole damn millennium.

"Oh," Ava said cautiously. "You want to share?"

Saul hesitated only for a moment. "Turns out our location was a fake."

Ava raised her eyebrows. "A fake?"

Saul nodded. "An infrared scan showed that the interior of the compound is virtually unoccupied."

"Could it be shielded?"

"Scans showed some movement throughout, but not enough to constitute the operation we're looking for."

Ava considered that for a moment. Then swore.

Mutely, Stefan closed the door. He walked over to the table, throwing the file down and sitting hard in a chair, still reeling too hard to do anything else. He was aware, if vaguely, of Saul's concerned look and Ava's curiosity, but he couldn't bring himself to care. About anything.

The lead was bogus and Michael was gone and what else was there?

Nothing.

There was _nothing_.

"Well, if it's a set up, then we just have to figure out why," Ava said. She shrugged. "I mean, why to through the through the trouble of setting up a front?"

So they wouldn't get caught. It didn't take a genius like Michael to figure that one out.

"I'm just saying it may not be the dead end you think it is," she continued, almost apologetically.

Stefan didn't even bother to glare at her. He didn't even look up.

Saul gestured to the table. "All our intel is there," he said. "Be my guest."

Ava leaned over, leafing through the piles. She lingered on the infrared scan, then put it aside. "Is this everything?"

Ava had a funny way of dismissing hours and weeks and months of work with a casual question. If Stefan wasn't so lost in his own misery, he would have had to slug her, even if she was a girl.

"The gist of it," Saul clarified, his voice edged with frustration.

Ava shuffled the papers once more, then squinted at the map. "That's your trail?" she asked.

Saul nodded. "They've been moving slowly southward ever since they hightailed it out of the States," he said. Then he shrugged. "Figured they were looking for a good permanent base camp."

Ava's nose was scrunched. "That doesn't make much sense," she said thoughtfully. "I mean, all of these locations - they're capital cities. If you're looking to lay low, you're going to hit someplace more rural."

Ava also had a tendency to state the obvious. Stefan was beginning to wonder why he'd wanted her on board at all. There was a reason he liked to keep things small.

"They've got government ties," Saul pointed out.

"Yeah, but not official ones," Ava countered. "If they got caught with a major illegal genetic testing operation in a major city, even in Mexico or Central America - it'd be an international incident. How long did you say they were in each location?"

"About three months, as best we could tell," Saul said.

"Three months?" Ava asked, her incredulity evident. "You serious?"

It wasn't uncommon for Ava to have mostly one-sided conversations with herself. It was just part of her charm on good days. Other days, it was part of the reason she drove Stefan insane.

"Why not?" he asked pointedly.

She blinked at him, almost as if she thought the answer were obvious. "If this operation is even half of what you told me it was, there is no feasible way for it to move every three months. Especially not over these distances. I mean, transit time alone for equipment, staff, and children - and then you have to consider the time it would take to get set up and to tear down. Moving that much doesn't even make sense."

Stefan wanted to glare, even though he knew on some level that his frustration was not with Ava. Still, it was impossible to keep the malice from his voice. "So what does make sense?" he snapped, looking at her fully for the first time since she'd arrived.

Ava actually seemed to consider the question, looking back at the map. She glanced at the fresh intel and almost laughed. "They've all been decoys."

Saul's protest was immediate, but the pronouncement settled over Stefan with a clarity he couldn't deny. Of course they'd been decoys. How else would they have been so easy to track? They had gone unnoticed in Florida for nearly twenty years. The thought that in less than a year, the Institute could become so mobile was asinine. A beautiful fantasy.

But there was another question. "But why put up the illusion?" Stefan asked.

Saul fell silent, shoulder slumped. His normally cocky looks were crestfallen and reserved.

Ava chewed her lip, shaking her head. "That is the real question here," she said. "If they wanted to disappear, they should have just disappeared. I don't doubt they could have the resources to keep themselves well veiled for another ten years, unless someone got really lucky."

"So, what, they _wanted_ someone to look for them?" Saul asked.

The pieces fell into place. "No, they just knew someone would," Stefan concluded. He swore. "Think about it. We raided them once, took one of their kids, even got Jericho and some of his men killed. Michael's worth a hell of a lot to them - if not in dollars, then in straight up science."

Ava was nodding along. "So if they set up a dummy trail to see who bites-"

"They can take care of it once and for all," Stefan said, the pronouncement heavy on his tongue. He'd known they were smart - they _had _to be, given what they were doing - but he had never let himself believe they had a leg up on him. His own damn naivete, a blind sense of security, and now Michael was paying the price for it.

Because - a set up. It had been a damn _set up. _Every trail they'd thought they'd had, every piece of intel they'd worked so hard to obtained - it'd been designed to keep them preoccupied, to draw them in, like rabbits to a snare. He'd known the Institute was well connected - he wasn't sure why he'd thought it'd be so easy. What was the saying? _Shame me once, shame on you. Shame me twice-_

Clearly the Institute didn't intend to be shamed twice.

Ava stared blankly at the map, Saul sitting still in his chair. Stefan didn't know whether to laugh or cry or just rip the entire apartment to shreds. They'd all have about the same effect: _nothing_.

Turned out, he did none of the above. The gripping numbness did not relinquish its icy grip. It seemed to be a common problem for Stefan, living in a fantasy world, shrouded by lies of omission and false truths. His father had fostered the delusion that Lukas was alive, just missing, for nearly ten years, and now Stefan had walked blindly into the same trap.

Weakness. That was Stefan, making the same damn mistakes. And with a flourish - in a spectacular fashion of sheer stupidity. He was nothing if not consistent. No new tricks for this old dog.

Except, what now? Turn tail and run? Trot off with his tail tucked between his legs? Give _up_?

Give up on _Michael_?

That question doused him like a bucket of cold water.

The numbness from before melted away, thawing his shock and disbelief and giving way to hardened resolve. Because giving up on Michael? Was never going to happen. Could never happen.

The idea was too preposterous. Not all habits had to die hard. Infallible hope could make him believe in the impossible, even to his detriment, but sometimes - when it counted - it helped him do the most unbelievable things. It was how he'd tracked down Michael the first time. He could do it again.

He _had_ to.

It was a fledgling hope, but the situation was pretty clear: he had no other options. Give up, or believe in the impossible.

Swallowing, he nodded. "Then we need to start fresh," he said, his voice tight.

"It's a nice idea, Korsak," Saul said, his tone not mean, but jaded. Saul liked to keep his cool in most situations, but Stefan could see plainly that this failure was a bit hard to take. "But intel like this - it just doesn't fall in your lap. I worked my ass getting this stuff for you, worked all my contacts for everything they know."

Stefan felt for Saul, he did. The disappointment was something Stefan understood. But he'd seen a lot of disappointment in his life. The best defense was to fight on anyway, be the stubborn bastard that he was deep down. "Work them again," Stefan said roughly.

Saul's expression didn't denote much confidence, but to his credit, he didn't argue.

"I can make some calls, too," Ava offered. "Journalists know more than they print. I might know someone who has picked something up, off the record."

Saul sighed, pulling out his phone. Shaking his head, he stood up. "Give me a few hours," he muttered. He paused at the door, scowling. "But I make no promises."

No promises, but no refusals either. Stefan would take it.

With Saul gone, Ava lingered, smiling for a moment. Her hand reached out tentative, taking Stefan's hand in hers. "What about you?" she asked. "What do _you _need?"

The question was easy to understand, but it almost didn't make sense. Stefan had spent most of his life dedicated to finding his brother, to taking care of Michael. It was a mistake he'd made during the first ten years, where he forgot that part of this was really about him. There were things he'd sacrificed unnecessarily in the pursuit, things like Natalie, a conscience, a _life_.

It was different now. He and Michael were settled, legitimate. Even if Stefan wasn't ready for love, he was ready for friendship. Saul and Ava - parts of the puzzle he didn't know he'd been missing until the whole damn thing fell apart.

What did he want? What did he need?

Even after all of it, the progress he'd made as a _person_, not a mobster, he realized that some things hadn't changed at all.

Meeting her eyes, he squeezed her hand back. When he spoke, his voice was almost raspy, but sure nonetheless. "I just need my brother back."

At that, she nodded. "Okay then," she said, nodding again. There was no weariness in her face, no disappointment in her eyes. Just steadfast determination. "Then I guess we'd better find him."

And Stefan could not - would never - disagree.

-o-

In reality, being a mobster left Stefan with very few usable skills. Sure, he could defend himself in a fight. When it came time to break into a top secret facility, he could swing the explosives, firepower, and gumption to get the job done. Oh, and he could run. He knew how to stay hidden, which had saved his ass in more ways than he wanted to remember. But beyond that? There wasn't much to talk about.

His interpersonal skills were atrocious. His ability to think on his feet usually involved making a snap decision between pulling a gun and bashing someone's head in. His research skills extended as far as his pocketbook would take him.

In short, Stefan was mostly useless now.

Not that he didn't trust Saul and Ava, but this was _Michael_. Michael was _missing_ and the Institute had him, and Stefan was sitting around the apartment waiting. Stefan took being a big brother pretty seriously, so it was hard not to see this as a total failure.

Who was he kidding - it _was_ a total failure. He'd crushed Michael's spirit, let him go running off in La Paz alone, and couldn't find more than a trace of him when the Institute swept in and whisked him away.

And what was Stefan doing now?

Packing.

Putting crap into boxes, sealing them with tape, and labeling them for good measure.

Michael was in the clutches of the Institute and Stefan was packing.

It needed to be done - that much was true. After all, _when_ they found Michael, there was no way they could settle back in La Paz like nothing had happened. Their position had already been compromised - at the very least, their current apartment couldn't work anymore. The last time Stefan had made a clean break, he'd left most of his stuff behind. As far as he knew, most of his stuff was still in a storage unit in Florida. He wasn't overly sentimental and his personal philosophy had always been that if he was with Michael, he had more than enough.

Certainly, leaving the stuff behind would be easier and more efficient. But this was Michael's stuff. And Michael really liked his stuff.

It was inevitable, Stefan supposed. To grow up with nothing, of course Michael would want _things_. Trinkets, collectibles, anything at all - stuff to call his own. After a year, the novelty of possession still hadn't worn off on the kid, and Stefan relished every minute of it. It was almost like Christmas every day for Michael, amassing stuff and keeping it.

So _when_ they found Michael, he'd want his stuff back. He'd be pissed as hell if Stefan just left it there. And considering how they'd parted the last time they'd seen each other, Stefan wanted to do everything he could to make Michael happy.

He owed Michael some packing. He actually owed Michael a whole lot more than that, but dumping every piece of cheap junk Michael had collected over the last year was the only place he could start to make it up to the kid.

But even packing couldn't answer the next difficult question: where were they moving to?

_When _they found Michael, they'd need to hole up some place quickly. Someplace out of the way, under the radar, but still comfortable. Stefan would do motel rooms if he had to, but he wasn't looking for something too generic if he could help it. He and Michael had been there and done that and _when _they found Michael, Stefan wanted the focus to be on restarting their life together, not how quickly they could skip town.

Of course, all of that would be much easier if they knew where Michael was. At this point, they didn't even know if they were on the right continent or even a nearby hemisphere.

At least he could be sure that Michael would be able to speak the language no matter where they settled. Michael was a chameleon in some ways; so intently interested in _everything_ that he tended to adapt to whatever culture or setting he seemed to be in. To the casual outsider, it would seem that Michael had been raised in Bolivia, a true La Paz native given his ease with the accent and his quick knowledge of the streets. Hell, the kid probably knew more about Bolivian history than two-thirds of the people they'd met during their stint there.

Michael would survive a move. Bolivia had had meaning, of course, but Michael would probably even like a change of scenery. Something new to study. He'd like the tribal feel of rural Africa, the old world charm of Europe, the high rise lifestyle of big city Asia. As long as they didn't settle someplace cold, the kid would probably flourish.

Stefan sighed, picking up a fresh box and starting in on the knickknacks strewn across Michael's desk. He couldn't make heads or tails of the odd collection of Smurf figurines, and he had to laugh when he found the miniature turtle with a bobbing head from their latest shopping outing. He'd tried to explain that those things were cheap souvenirs, hocked ad naseum to gullible tourists, but Michael had insisted.

"It has a mellow vibe," had been Michael's defense.

A mellow vibe and a five dollar price tag that Stefan had to shell out.

Carefully, he put it in the box, minding the small bobbing head as best he could before reaching for the next item.

His heart caught in his throat, his hand stuck mid-grab. It was the picture, the one Anatoly had given him for Christmas over a year ago. It had been a painful gift when he'd received it, but when Saul had found a lead on Lukas, it had become an emblem of hope. He'd even used it to try to jog Michael's memory, to convince him that they were brothers.

For a while, Michael hadn't been able to look at it. But when they'd gotten unpacked in Bolivia, Michael had come across it again, shoved into the bottom of some box probably by accident. Stefan had intended to put it in a drawer, to look at it to remember the brother he'd lost, but Michael had wanted. The kid just put it up in his room, without so much as a word, and the gesture had been so promising in terms of Michael's acceptance that Stefan was willing to go with it.

It did make him feel guilty, sometimes, when he saw it on Michael's dresser. It reminded him of the lie he was asking Michael to buy into and of the brother whose legacy he was augmenting in favor of another. But seeing the way Michael looked at it sometimes, curious and hopeful, Stefan had always figured that Lukas wouldn't mind. He was a selfless kind of kid; he would have liked that his memory was still making a difference, even if in anonymity.

The picture was something else now. The stark reality of a failed lie. It was why Michael had run. After all, Stefan had worked hard to give him everything - a family and a backstory to call his own - but the lies were built on nothing more than good intentions.

His fingers closed around the frame, picking it up and looking at it closely. Lukas was smiling, his eyes sparkling. It was a memory of Lukas Stefan still held dear, a memory he'd been striving to recreate for Michael ever since he'd pulled the kid out of the Institute over a year ago.

_When_ he got Michael back, they'd have to take a new picture. Something of just the two of them. _When _Michael got back, they'd create their own history.

Part of him knew that he was pinning a lot on the way things _used_ to be. With his focus on getting Michael back, it was sometimes easy to skirt why Michael had left in the first place. While it was true that Michael could adapt to nearly any living condition (as long as there was candy and fast food), Stefan was not so sure how well the kid could adapt to the truth of their familial situation.

Rather, the lack thereof. Whether he was out knocking heads together or stuck inside packing boxes, he still didn't know if Michael would still want to move with him at all. Who was to say that he would willing go anywhere with Stefan after the lies he'd told?

Good intentions, though.

Stiffly, Stefan put the picture in the box, right next to the Smurfs and the turtle. It would be Michael's choice, and Stefan would have to respect it - _when_ he got Michael back.

-o-

Time passed slowly when living in a bubble. Michael knew it was merely a psychological affect, how one's attention tended to remain transfixed on the passage of time when there was nothing more meaningful to use as a distraction. This focus made time feel slower.

Michael understood that intellectually.

Emotionally, it didn't make any difference. Each moment was more torturous than the last, and he could almost feel every second trickling by like dirt on a grave he was being buried in alive.

Second after second, the air was getting thinner. The light further away. His chances of survival dimming.

It seemed ironic to Michael that the real torture had not even begun. Dr. Bellucci had not yet returned. Yet, Michael was losing hope.

Even more ironic: that he still thought in terms that he had any hope at all.

Suddenly the door opened. Michael did not bother to see who it was.

"Hello again, Michael," Dr. Bellucci said conversationally. "Did you get some rest?"

Michael refused to answer, refused to even look.

The doctor went about his business regardless. "I have decided on a course of study," he continued. Michael could hear the clanging of instruments on a tray. "It was a bit of a consideration, trying to figure out where to start. However, I have decided to capitalize on your powerful healing capabilities and perform a portion of the physical tests I had in mind to begin."

Michael's breathing hitched, memories of his time in Jericho's lab coming to him unbidden. Still, he refused to look, refused to give this man the satisfaction of his pain or any other information.

Footsteps moved across the floor, closer to Michael. Something was wheeled around and a bright light was turned on, glaring into Michael's eyes so harshly he had to turn away as best he could.

"I realize what I am about to do may seem unduly cruel, but I assure you, it is not punishment," the doctor continued. "Surgically extracting portions of all your organs will give me a better look at the DNA throughout your body. I can assess how all your organs are functioning, see if there are any unpredicted anomalies that I should be aware of."

It was effort now, not to shudder, but Michael held it in. This was his fate, this was his penance for turning his back on the one person who had ever cared for him. He had burned his bridges and had no one to blame but himself.

"For most people, I would opt for a general anesthetic. The pain and trauma of such an invasive procedure would be beyond endurance. However, I am curious just how resilient you are, so we will complete these procedures with only local painkillers to numb the initial cuts. I am afraid you will feel quite a bit of it since the painkiller should be enough to keep you conscious even as I operate."

Michael's stomach went cold, his entire body starting to tremble. He had expected it to be bad, but he had not anticipated this.

Afraid, he turned his head, looking up at the doctor. The man was in a surgical gown now, gloves on his hands, hair in a surgical cap.

Inclining his head, the doctor smiled. "Please, feel free to share your thoughts at any time," he noted. "We will be recording this for the sake of documentation. I wouldn't want to miss anything now, would I?"

Michael found himself unable to speak, almost unable to breathe. His hospital gown was easily opened, and his bare skin prickled at being exposed. His heart started pounding and he shook his head, pulling uselessly at his bonds. "No," he whispered. He fought off the urge to cry. "Please."

Dr. Bellucci swabbed an area, then took a syringe and injected something into the site. "I'd tell you it'll all be over soon," he said with something of a sympathetic smile. "But I don't like to lie to my subjects."

"Please," Michael tried again.

The doctor's eyes passed over him vaguely, and he moved to Michael's arms, hesitating above the restraints. For a second - for a blessed second - Michael believed maybe the doctor would spare him, maybe there would be some release-

But the hope was squelched as the doctor cinched the restraints, essentially immobilizing Michael from even the smallest of movements. He repeated the action on both legs, then the other hand. "We don't want you thrashing and throwing off my cutting," he explained easily. "I would hate to think of unnecessarily harm coming to you."

Michael breathed out bitterly, his disbelief taking hold. "Please, don't," he said again, louder this time. "You don't-"

A numbness tingled across his abdomen and his next plea for mercy was cut off by a quick and efficient incision.

It was the shock that hit him first, the acute realization that he'd just been cut open. The was a logic to it he couldn't quite grasp, the plaintive pace at which it was occurring. The doctor's demeanor was too casual, as though this sort of thing were commonplace.

Life in the Institute before had been limiting and bland, but it had never been outright painful. Care had been taken to treat them well, like commodities. All procedures involved copious amounts of drugs, usually to the point where Michael could not remember anything afterward.

He had always assumed it had been a practical measure to ensure they never knew too much. What he hadn't realized was just how much of a mercy it had been.

Michael gasped as the scalpel flayed him, no more than two inches, but enough that Michael was gaping, hot tears rolling down his cheeks when it was done.

Dr. Bellucci pulled the bloody scalpel away, depositing it neatly on a tray. "This is where the fun begins, Michael," he said, as if in assurance, not in condemnation.

Michael's eyes went wide and as the doctor took a new tool to the open wound, the pain registered, choking off his tears. His body convulsed, locked into place, no outlet for his agony. He had no recourse. He had _nothing_. Just the pain and the blood and the inevitability that it would all end, but not nearly soon enough.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thanks to those who are reading! Notes in chapter one.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Staying employed was really the last of Stefan's concerns, but stopping by to pick up a paycheck still seemed like a worthwhile venture. After all, their best laid plans had just gone belly up. Stefan needed something to fall back on, and unfortunately for Stefan, that included the dingy bar and Jorge's pinched little face.

It wasn't that he disliked Jorge - in truth, the man kind of amused him - but he just didn't have the time for it - not with Michael missing.

Except he _did_ have time. That was the cruel truth. They were fresh out of leads, and while Saul turned over rocks and Ava checked behind hard places, all Stefan could do was collect what meager cash he had and continue his preparations to leave. Because he _would _be leaving. One way or another.

Since it was midday, it wasn't like the place was packed. They didn't do a strong lunch crowd, but there were a few regulars. Michael's Raquel was behind the counter, and she inclined a manicured eyebrow when he came in.

"Stefan," she said, her heavy accent taking the Russian and lilting it. "I was beginning to wonder if you had taken el nino and left town. I am glad that you have not."

Stefan managed a grin. There was a reason that Michael had been attracted to her. _Everyone_ was attracted to her. Hell, half the reason Jorge kept his place afloat at all was because of Raquel. She was nothing short of perfection - a long sleek body, perfectly bronzed skin, and the high cheekbones that would set any ad campaign on fire. Why she was resigned to working in a bar, Stefan couldn't be sure, but he halfway suspected she used it as a playground for her sexual prowess. "I'd miss you, too," he said tightly, keeping his eyes from her low cut top.

Her smile turned sly. "You, no. But the boy, yes. Cute face on that one. Nice blonde hair. Guapo."

Stefan grimaced. No wonder Michael had gotten the hint that she liked him. Raquel was circling the horses when it came to Michael. "He's barely legal," he reminded her.

The glint in her eyes was ravenous. "Barely is good enough."

Maybe cutting down wasn't such a bad idea after all. If Raquel had her way, Michael would have his cherry popped right before she devoured him whole. Knowing Michael, he'd probably think it was love and fall for it, head over heels, until she ground him to dust before moving on to the next hot thing in her path.

Of course, that assumed Michael was here at all.

Stomach twisting, Stefan forced himself to ignore Raquel. "Is the jefe here?"

She lifted her chin, looking down at him, clearly not pleased by his brush off. With a jerk of her head, she said, "In the back."

"Thanks," Stefan said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He slipped behind the bar, working his way to the back room.

"Con cuidado, muchacho," she advised from the bar. "He may not be too happy to see you."

Stefan turned briefly, flashing her his best winning smile. "But everyone is always happy to see me," he said.

The roll of her eyes suggested that it might not be so true.

The angry tirade Jorge launched when he set eyes on Stefan confirmed it. Most of it was in Spanish, but Stefan picked up on the salient details. Some things were easy to understand in any language.

Stefan endured it with as much patience as his fortitude afforded him. This was his last stop when it came to tying up lose ends in La Paz, and he had accepted coldly that he might never be coming back.

It was a cold truth, that it was time to move on. Michael's nabbing had only secured the deal, even though it might have been long in coming. They were both wanted men, one way or another, and as much as Stefan wanted to provide Michael with some stability, keeping him safe was his primary concern. Staying in one place too long made Stefan sloppy, and he could see how it ended up.

Still, seeing the apartment stripped bare, boxes packed and pictures taken down - it was a hard thing to swallow. He'd watched Michael come alive there, blossom into the bizarre yet beautiful young man that he was. Michael's school was there, his friends, his would-be girlfriends.

Hell, Stefan was even going to miss Jorge. Round little face and angry Spanish litanies and all. Michael wasn't the only one making connections. Stefan didn't really believe in friends, but people who knew his name, who expected him to show up, who knew him well enough to get pissed when he was a no-show - it wasn't _nothing_. They were the every day relationships Stefan had so craved as a child. The ones he hadn't been able to trust in the mafia. Michael wasn't the only one who had come into himself in La Paz.

When Jorge finally stopped to take a breath, his face almost beet red, Stefan offered a meager smile. "Lo siento," he said. "I've had a bit of a family emergency."

Jorge threw his hands up. "Todavia, se disculpa. I pay you to _work_, not make excuses!"

Normally he'd joke with the man, play out one last back and forth but he didn't have it in him. "It's my brother," he said finally, honestly as he could. "We've got some bad stuff going on. I'm not sure when I'll be able to pick any hours back up."

Jorge's face softened at that. "El nino? He is okay, yes?"

Stefan swallowed the emotions. "He will be."

He couldn't say more, and he wouldn't, but fortunately for as much as Jorge liked to scream and rant, the man also had a heart. That was a funny thing. After working for Konstantin, sometimes Stefan forgot that people in the real world had a thing called compassion.

And Jorge had it in droves.

It was surprising, to say the least. Stefan had expected a rant and a shove out the door, his only recompense the meager paycheck in his pocket. But Jorge ranted in an entirely new tone, worry and concern, and he gave Stefan his paycheck and a bonus for good measure.

"And if you need anything, just ask," the man was saying as he herded Stefan to the door in a fatherly fashion. "Your job will be here for you when you are ready, yes? You will come back when all is well?"

It wasn't likely, but the little man was looking at him so sincerely with his big brown eyes, that all Stefan could do was smile. "Yeah, of course."

"Bien, bien," Jorge said. "And tell the boy to keep eating. Skinny thing like him, my wife would think to make him plump so he really gets the right girls."

Stefan had to laugh. "I'll pass that along."

The rest of the farewell was in Spanish, a bit tedious and slow, but when Stefan finally made it out into the front room, he felt oddly better. So that was what living was really about. Stefan tried to remember a time when he'd been so simply human, but he was hard pressed to come up with anything.

This was another reason why he needed Michael back. They needed each other - plain and simple. And Stefan would stop at nothing until the balance was restored in both their worlds.

Skirting around the bar, Stefan studiously avoided Raquel's curious eyes. He was just about to duck out the door when he saw him.

Long trench coat. Bald spot.

It made Stefan's heart stop, his entire body going cold. It was the man he'd seen in the bar all those nights ago. The one who had checked Michael out.

The one on the video, spiriting Michael into an alley.

He was _here_. Sitting in Jorge's bar, drinking a beer and ogling Raquel for all he was worth.

Throat tight, for a second, Stefan didn't know what to do. His impulse was the grab the man and beat him senseless on the spot.

But his impulse would only get him arrested, which was a trouble he didn't need.

With effort, he made himself keep walking, numb fingers on the doorknob as he opened it, stepping out into the street.

His steps were careful and measured as he walked by the window, eyes lingering on the man one more time. He was still there, bald spot to the window.

Resolved, Stefan kept walking to the alley, ducking into it discreetly.

Working to control his breathing, Stefan focused on the task at hand. This was a lead - a damn good lead - and he could risk losing it prematurely. But he also couldn't risk exposure, which meant it was a careful waiting game. Let the mark make his move first, then pursue. When he had an opportunity to snatch him, then he could ask his questions and get the answers he needed.

The son of a bitch had it coming to him, after all. It was exactly what he'd done to Michael, except he'd been too much of a chicken to do it all himself. Instead, he'd relied on a little girl.

Stefan didn't need a little girl to do his dirty work. His own hands were dirty enough, and a little more certainly wouldn't hurt.

Stefan couldn't say for sure how long he waited. It was a tricky thing, keeping the door in his line of sight while remaining unimposing. He fiddled with his cell phone, pretending to make some calls and check some texts.

It was hard waiting - damn near impossible. The anxiety was building in him, reaching almost unbearable proportions. This was the man who had taken Michael. This was the man who had taken _his brother_.

Stefan could find out why and where - he could get Michael back.

And still he had to _wait_.

Just when Stefan was about to screw waiting and drag him out of the bar kicking and screaming, the door opened. First a young woman came out, turning down the street toward Stefan, but right behind her, the trench coat man had ducked out, hands shoved into his pockets, head pulled down as he started down the street in the opposite direction.

At an easy gait, Stefan stepped out into the street. He kept his pace quick, but his demeanor unassuming, trailing at a comfortable distance.

The man walked on, seemingly oblivious. He looked around briefly, but never checked behind him.

Then, he turned, walking down a more residential street.

Following suit, Stefan turned as well, closing the distance between them slightly.

This street was quiet, mostly empty. A delivery van was unloading something at a corner market. A man was walking a dog. There was a woman pushing a stroller.

And a man in a trench coat, walking calm as could be for a kidnapper.

Then Stefan saw it. A drive-through alley, just up the way. The van was parked the other direction, providing good cover.

Stepping up his pace, Stefan was right behind him now and he timed it perfectly, stepping into the alley right as it opened up next to him. With quick movements, he grabbed the man by the arm, yanking him into the alley.

Before the man could yelp, Stefan pulled his gun, shoving it had into the man's back, digging through the trench coat so he would know exactly what it was.

The man was spluttering a protest, but Stefan didn't stop, dragging him deeper into the alley and slamming him face first against a doorway.

"You don't want to do this," the man said, sounding not nearly scared enough for Stefan's liking.

Ramming him harder, Stefan dug the gun deeper. "How the hell do you know what I want?"

"I don't have much money, if that's what you're after," the man said, almost conversationally.

Stefan adjusted his grip, wrenching the man's arm up to an uncomfortable position. "I don't want your money."

The man gasped a little, a smile playing over his face. "Okay then, so tell me, what do you want?"

"I want you to tell me who the hell you are."

The man snorted at that. "If you knew, kid, you wouldn't be messing with me."

"Yeah?" Stefan asked, wrenching his arm further and mashing him even more against the wall. "Well you don't have any clue who you're messing with either."

The man actually chuckled at that. "I don't know who you _think_ I am, but I'm going to cut you some slack here. Check my back pocket."

Stefan hesitated, but if he wanted to know who this idiot worked for, checking the ID was the best way.

Careful to maintain his grip, Stefan used one hand to dig into the man's pocket. It took some work to pull the billfold out, but when he did, he flipped it open and promptly went numb.

"See it, kid?" the man asked mockingly. "Read it nice and clear."

Stefan had lived on the wrong side of the law wrong enough to know the real thing when he saw it. He swore.

The man chuckled. "So you think you want to let go before I nab you for harassing a CIA agent?"

Stiffly, Stefan let go, his throat feeling tight. He'd been expecting something sinister, and he _knew_ about the government ties - but damn. The Institute had the CIA pulling its dirty work. Just how deep did this go?

The man - Agent Lance Webber - turned, adjusted his coat as he did. Rolling his shoulders, he pulled himself to his full height, as if to look intimidating.

Stefan sure as hell wasn't intimidated by the guy's size or the badge in his pocket. The CIA's involvement made his skin crawl, and the only reason he had for not belting this guy right then and there was the fact that Stefan still had information he needed.

"So you have anything to say for yourself now, kid?" Agent Webber asked, something of a smirk on his face.

"You're supposed to be one of the good guys, then," Stefan said. And that did mean something to him. All those years pining to carry a badge had made him want to believe in the inherent goodness of such things.

Agent Webber's lips puckered a bit, his eyes narrowing. "All the way," he said. "Kind of stuff I worry about is way above your pay grade."

Stefan had been kept in the dark about his father's dealings for most of his life - so the tone of need-to-know was familiar to him. But he hadn't liked it as a kid. And he sure as hell didn't like it now. "So then why did you take the kid, you son of a bitch?" he asked, not quite able to keep his voice restrained, malice slipping in.

The man's eyes widened a bit at that. "The kid?"

Stefan had to give him credit; he had some acting chops. He almost sounded sincerely oblivious. "You nabbed a kid. Blonde, about eighteen. Out of the market a few miles down the way. I know it was you - I saw the surveillance video. It's subtle, but there if you're looking for it."

Agent Webber's face was blank for a moment before resignation passed over his features. "I should have known that kid would cause me problems," he muttered. "I just didn't figure he'd be in so deep as to have people _really_ looking for him."

Right, so he just figured he'd take some naive eighteen-year-old and no one would notice. "Well, they _are_," Stefan said. "And I want to know why you'd be so stupid as to take a kid like that? A _kid_."

A moment of indecision passed on Agent Webber's benign face. "Look," he said, and his voice was edgy now. "This isn't the kind of stuff you're supposed to know about. Your best bet is to just forget the kid every existed and move on with life."

Of all the possible outcomes, Stefan could guarantee that wasn't going to be one of them. "I don't think you understand," Stefan said, fingers clenching into fist. He was treading as carefully as he could. He wasn't so stupid as to ignore the leniency he was getting here, and getting picked up on anything - even something as small as assault - would screw over his chances of finding Michael quickly. "The kid _is _my life. I'm going to get him back."

Agent Webber shook his head, running a weary hand over his face. "This is what I get for coming back," he muttered. "Damn CIA stations me out in the middle of Craphole, Bolivia and I _finally _find a bar with rum that doesn't make me want to hack, and this is the trouble I get."

"Cry me a river," Stefan snapped. "Tell me where you took him."

Agent Webber rolled his eyes. "Even if I told you the drop site, it wouldn't make a difference. I met with a representative and then he was gone. I don't know where, and I don't care where. I did what I had to do."

The classic response. Just following orders.

Except this moron wasn't even very good at it. Spilling his guts to some punk civilian. CIA should know better, but it proved to Stefan that arrogance, whether in the mob or in the CIA, was one of the greatest downfalls there was.

Still, Stefan wasn't about to stop Agent Webber from giving up details he should have been holding close to the vest. Maybe, if Stefan was lucky, the idiot would get his badge pulled for lapses in any coherent thought whatsoever.

"And I'm just doing what I have to do," Stefan pushed. Agent Webber seemed to pity him, and Stefan would take the handouts however he got them. With steady resolve, Stefan raised his gun again. "Tell me the drop site."

"Look-"

Stefan cocked the gun, still not sure if he'd be willing to do it. It was something to kill when someone was shooting at you; it was something else entirely to take a life when that person wasn't pointing anything back. It was why he'd let Vasily walk back in Florida. Liar and a thief that he was, Stefan hadn't had it in him to finish the deed.

Agent Webber was probably an American patriot for all Stefan knew. Doing his job, protecting the world. Maybe this mission had been bogus, but Stefan had no way of knowing about the rest. Killing Webber wouldn't be justice.

But it might be necessary. Stefan knew that, even if he didn't want to.

And he could only hope that Webber would know it, too.

Agent Webber's jaw worked, then his face hardened. "A place outside of the city. A private compound just outside Santa Cruz, designed to handle this kind of thing. It's over now, there's nothing-"

"What was the name of your contact?" Stefan demanded.

Agent Webber shook his head. "You're not getting more out of me," he said. He shrugged, eyeing the gun disdainfully. Then he straightened. "You'll have to kill me."

The refusal pushed the edges of Stefan's self-control. He did not want to be here, he did not want to kill this man, he _didn't_. "Just _tell_ me."

It was a plea, and they both knew it. And just like that, Stefan's advantage was compromised. A tried and true killer would have pulled the trigger. A hardened criminal would have upped the stakes. Stefan had just proven his limits. A bonus for his humanity; a con for his effort to save his brother.

Agent Webber smiled knowingly. "You really are smitten, aren't you? They hadn't told me the kid had any ties worth considering."

Then _they_ were doing a pretty piss poor job of their intel. "Who was the representative?" he tried again. "Why did you have to take him?"

But Agent Webber's helpfulness was beginning to wane, his self-assured cockiness returning. "It's not your fault," he said patiently. "You had no way of knowing what the kid was."

"That _kid_ is my brother."

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by that revelation. "The kid's an asset. A genetically engineered freak. He has no family."

He said it plainly, as though it were indisputable fact.Only a moron would refute it.

Unfortunately for both of them, Stefan had never banked much on his intelligence. He tilted his head, a hard glint in them. "You're wrong."

Agent Webber sighed, almost in exasperation. There was a strained and condescending look of sympathy on his plain face. "I know he probably lied to you - he's trained to do that. Got you all twisted around to try to find him or something. He's trained to make you believe anything he wants you to believe. And I get it, I do. I mean, kid like that - just look at him. And if you swing that way, you're going to be pretty protective-"

Stefan didn't need to hear anymore. CIA agent or not, he let loose with a punch. It clipped the guy across the jaw, and no amount of training could have given someone the fortitude to stay up from that kind of force.

Agent Webber - bald spot, trench coat, and all - went down like a sack of potatoes, a dead weight on Stefan's feet. For a moment, he fought the urge to finish the guy off - CIA or not, any jackass should know it wasn't okay to take kids off the street. Stefan was sure that telling himself that the kid was a danger, that he was nothing more than a governmental top secret project gone awry, that he was protecting international security by containing a threat - that it made him sleep a little bit better.

It was still piss-ass _wrong_, and even a guy with a warped moral compass like Stefan knew it.

All in all, Agent Webber was lucky Stefan didn't take him out where he lay. A single bullet with the moron's own silencer would do the trick.

But Michael wouldn't want that. And despite the fact that this guy had had a part in snatching Michael, he was just a lackey, a schmuck following orders. Even if this guy made his skin crawl, Stefan could respect that sometimes when you were low on the totem pole, you had to do what you were told if you wanted to live.

It wasn't likely that the agent would go after him - not the would-be scorned lover he seemed to think he was. At any rate, Stefan wasn't planning on sticking around long enough to find out.

He had a brother to find. He didn't have time to indulge whims like revenge anyway. And with all that he'd done to betray Michael, he wasn't about to let the kid down by killing someone.

So if Stefan kicked the guy one or two times before leaving, it was entirely for himself.

-o-

Torture.

Michael had seen it in movies. He understood it, in theory. He knew the psychology behind it. He was also well versed in scenarios which could justify it, and the best methods to elicit the desired response.

In all of that, Michael had never experienced it.

Yes, he had on occasion thought of his early years in the Institute as torture. Long, empty years, devoid of control or humanity. They had been horrible and limiting, in ways Michael had not fully realized until his rescue.

However, he had been wrong to think of them as torture.

Very, very wrong.

Torture was more foundational, physically overpowering and psychologically incapacitating. It was cut after cut, precise and careful, a slow, tedious monologue of every body part, every organ, every drop of blood. Torture was hearing your life literally be reduced to DNA, plucked through callously, cut and divided and disregarded on a whim.

Torture was pain with no escape. Second after second, until life was reduced to a string of agonizing breaths. It was closing your eyes to avoid reality and opening them again, desperate for a reprieve from the nightmares. It was screaming for help until your throat was raw and watching as the torturer drank easily from bottled water within sight but always out of reach.

That was torture. Not in theory. Reality. Unreality. Torture was its own reality, grounded on a primal level in the concrete but reaching so completely into the metaphysical realms and beyond. Michael did not experience pain, he _was_ pain. He ceased to be Michael, and started to become the subject Dr. Bellucci had prescribed him to be.

There was no begging. Subjects didn't beg for rights they didn't have. There was no hope. Subjects knew there only purpose was this and only this, whatever someone else dictates for them.

Michael did not know how long it lasted. He did not pass out, and he watched through a small window as daylight faded and twilight settled. The lights inside were ever-bright, burning through his irises and searing his brain, even as he was stitched back up.

When the doctor was done, he left Michael alone, lights on and glaring, body naked and exposed. That was where Michael was now. He had not moved. He could not move. His limbs were still tightly cinched to the gurney, and the only part of his body he could move at all was his head. He had lost feeling in his fingers and toes a while ago, whether from loss of circulation or sheer fatigue, he could not be sure.

It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

Michael could feel every stitch where it rose from his flesh, and he thought it seemed appropriate, as though he were no longer whole. No longer real. Parts of him were missing, violated and dismissed, and his body trembled as the twilight faded to darkness.

Sleep did not come. He spent hours awake, staring at nothingness, wondering what to make of it. For a while he had tried to count ceiling tiles, but he never made it past three. He'd tried cataloguing the machinery in the room, but the thought of what each piece could do made him sick to his stomach.

There was a clock on the wall, but it didn't have a second hand. Michael tried to count to sixty each minute, but when he topped 100 without fail, he gave up.

He gave up.

That was the point of torture, to make someone give up. Sometimes it was to give up information, perhaps important tactical data. Sometimes it was used to catch terrorists. Sometimes it was used by terrorists.

But then it wasn't pure torture, not in Michael's mind. Pure torture had no purpose, no definitive end for the victim. Real torture, of the most basic kind, offered no recourse to the victim. There was nothing to give up and nothing to hold onto.

His body felt distant, but his brain acute. That was all part of the torture, he figured. No refuges, not even in sleep.

That was almost more unsettling than the pain. Michael was used to falling asleep quickly, on a whim. Most nights he just laid in bed and was out before he could even look at Kermit smiling at him on the ceiling.

He liked that picture, though. Always made a point to see the green muppet. It was endearing and benign. Peaceful.

Stefan had never liked that picture.

The thought of Stefan seemed almost foreign, and the image of the other boy's face was already faded.

As though he didn't exist at all.

Michael wondered if he really had.

The painkillers were wearing off, his body beginning to tremble. At first he had thought it was a simple reaction to the growing influx in pain, but he soon learned that wasn't the case. He was running a fever, alternating with hot flashes and cold spells, jittering throughout his body with an intensity it could not tolerate. His arms were cramped from being so tightly pulled against the bars and his kidneys ached from the catheter.

He existed here, in this place. In this state. This was real and he knew it by the pain of every stitch of his violated body, the shame that throbbed with every pulse of his heart. Nothing else mattered, not really. Only the here and now, the fever and the pain, the humiliation and hopelessness.

But he could still remember - he _could_. Michael's eyes drifted shut as a bout of fever took him. It was hazy there, gauzy darkness that wasn't penetrating enough. But Stefan was there, dark hair and a scar on his face. He was talking, telling him they were brothers. That was what Stefan did. Stefan took him to Bolivia, helped him create a life for himself. He could see Stefan smiling, laughing, making promises no one brother could ever hope to keep.

Then Stefan was curling up in pain from Michael's doing.

That thought startled Michael awake, eyes snapping open and darting frantically around the room. The apartment was gone. There was no picture of Kermit. Stefan was not there.

Stefan was not _there_.

That simple fact wore on his frayed psyche and released the sobs he'd been keeping at bay. Cries not of pain, but of despair, racking his body so hard that the gurney shook and clanged, even in the bright stillness of the room.

This was regret. This was living with one's mistakes. He made his bed; now he was going to sleep in it.

No, he was going to die in it. Slowly, painfully, but surely.

He took a strangled breath, tears hot on his face. He had no right to cry. He had no right to miss Stefan at all.

In essence, there was no Stefan. Stefan was not here, he perhaps had never been here. To miss someone, was to still be human. Holding onto that humanity would only make it hurt worse.

As if it could hurt worse.

Steadying his breathing, Michael sniffled, even as snot and tears were drying on his face. He looked at the ceiling, looked at the hopelessness of his existence, and stared on until morning.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Again, thanks to those who are reading :)

CHAPTER NINE

Back at the apartment, Saul was passed out on the table, phone still in his hands as he slept slack jawed with his head down on the wood. The apartment was a mess with dirty dishes and papers scattered all over the place - not to mention the growing collection of beer bottles that adorned every available surface.

Purposefully, Stefan closed the door, clomping heavily across the floor. When Saul didn't stir, Stefan dragged out one of the chairs roughly, sitting down with force.

The noise was enough to startle Saul, who sat upright, eyes wide and blinking. When he saw Stefan, the automatic panic faded to annoyance, his mouth twisted scornfully. "Nice entrance, Smirnoff," he muttered. "I'm glad you've been working on your grace this past year."

"Nice to see you, too," Stefan said. "I thought I paid you to work, not sleep."

Saul snorted, rolling his shoulders. "If you want me to work well, some sleep will be required. Even the ladies know that."

Too much information, but there was truth to it.

"Besides," Saul continued. "I didn't actually mean to fall asleep."

That much Stefan trusted. After all, when he took a good look at the other man, he could plainly see how much Saul was sacrificing. His hair was unkempt, his shirt rumpled. It didn't smell like he'd showered that day.

"Well," Stefan said, sitting back easily. He kept his look coy. "While you were sleeping on the job, I got us a lead."

Saul's eyebrows raised. "A lead? A bonafide lead?"

"Michael was taken to a compound outside of Santa Cruz."

Saul stared. "Outside of Santa Cruz," he repeated. "And how do we know that?"

It wasn't like Stefan was a stranger to the wrong side of the law, and it wasn't like Saul hadn't known that before, but still, sometimes owning up to it was hard. Beating up on the guy had made perfect sense when he'd been doing it, but now that he was telling the details to Saul, he understood how it sounded. "_We_ may have run into the CIA agent who nabbed him," he said emphatically, hoping to remind Saul why all of this was worthwhile.

Saul blinked this time, still a little slow on the uptake. The last few days had perhaps taken more of a toll on the playboy than Stefan had thought. "The CIA agent who grabbed him," Saul said in rote, almost like he didn't want to believe it.

Stefan rolled his eyes. On the large list of illegal things they'd done last time, roughhousing a CIA agent wasn't _that_ bad. "The guy's been stationed in La Paz for awhile - other business, from what I could tell. He was instructed to pick up Michael on the side. He's the guy from the surveillance video."

Saul's eyes went wide, a flicker of hope glistening in them. "Balding trench coat guy?"

Stefan nodded. "Spotted him, trailed him, and convinced him to talk." It was more or less the truth, or maybe less the truth and more self-justification. Their ends were just enough; the means would have to play along.

"Convinced him," Saul muttered, shaking his head, clearly not quite in line with Stefan's liberal Machiavellian views on the incident. "You can't just beat up the CIA-"

It maybe hadn't been his smartest move, and yes, he knew that. But, the fact was that it was information they'd needed, and the guy had been an ass, and he'd kidnapped a kid against his will. So Stefan wasn't about to apologize for it. "He told me what I needed to know," Stefan defended.

Then Saul showed his pragmatic side - one reason he was definitely worth the high price tag. "But he could have followed you-"

Still, Saul should have known better. Stefan didn't leave loose ends. At least not ones that were awake. "Not so much since I left him there unconscious."

Saul groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Just when I think this can't get any worse."

They had passed _worse_ a long time ago, about the time that they'd seen Michael get snatched on the surveillance. At this point, Stefan figured things could only get better, federal warrants notwithstanding.

And besides, the guy didn't have the balls to admit he didn't have the balls to prevent getting worked over like a rookie.

"You're missing the point," Stefan interjected with exasperation.

"Oh, the point? What point?" Saul asked, his voice hitching a little. "That you're going to get arrested and leave me to do this stupid mission by myself? Or that with you in jail, I'll never get paid?"

Stefan's jaw worked. "The point that we can find out where Michael is now."

Saul's mouth opened. Then closed. Because Stefan had a point - no, Stefan had the _only _point. "A compound outside of Santa Cruz," he clarified.

"That's what he said," Stefan confirmed.

Tentatively, Saul stood, his face scrunched in what appeared to be concentration. He paused, looking at Stefan in disbelief. "They're actually in Bolivia?"

Stefan shrugged. "I think my source was pretty accurate."

It was a piece of information that Stefan hadn't let himself dwell on just yet. But it was throwing up red flags for Saul. "That's pretty coincidental, don't you think?"

Given the last few days, Stefan was not inclined to believe in coincidences - at least not where the Institute was involved. "You think they followed us here?"

Saul's laugh was short and breathless. "Makes sense if they were after Michael."

There was a certain twisted logic to that, but there were still some holes missing in the working theory that they needed to answer. "But why not nab him sooner? I mean, we're careful, but it's not like I keep the kid under lock and key. He's enrolled in school, hangs out with his friends."

"Well, you said the CIA nabbed him, right?" Saul asked.

"Yeah," Stefan said slowly.

"The Institute may have government ties, but it's not clearly funded or run by the government. To convince the CIA to take the case would require some serious posturing. And we saw the footage - it wasn't just your new CIA friend, but the girl as well. What was her name?"

The thought of the little girl made Stefan cringe. "Wendy," he said.

"One of the Institute's right?" Saul asked. He started pacing the floor.

"Yeah, a pretty damn gifted one at that," Stefan confirmed, the memory of his hand going numb in her presence still eerily vivid in his mind.

Saul gestured in the air. "To pull of an operation with a CIA operative and a representative from the Institute - they'd have to put all new protocols in place. The CIA would be crossing their t's and dotting their i's. Training, intel on Michael, making sure that Wendy was safe to take out. We're looking at months of prep work to organize a sting that gets the job done without hitches."

"Or a year," Stefan said with a slow nod, following Saul's line of thinking. The reality of it was a bit harder to take, though. "They've been scoping us out all year."

Saul made a face. "Probably me, too," he said. He shook his head, looking at the ceiling. "I will never get a good client _again_. Not with my record so tarnished."

"Easy, Scozsinky," Stefan said. "You help me pull this off, and I'll make sure you don't have to work another day."

Saul seemed to consider that, a small frown pulling at his lips. "That's be all nicely said and done if we knew where the compound was."

"Outside of Santa Cruz," Stefan reiterated, with decidedly less patience this time.

Saul rolled his eyes. "Yes, thank you. But in case you're not up on your Bolivian geography, the area you're describing is rather large."

"How large could it be?"

Pretty damn large, apparently. Saul rolled out the map, drawing a circle around the area the CIA agent had indicated. True, it was still a good lead - a damn good lead - but not quite as good as Stefan had hoped. Though they had narrowed their search from the _entire world_, the wide radius would still cost them time - time Michael may not have.

It was a bad feeling, a growing doubt gnawing at the pit of his stomach with increasing intensity. The possibility of failure, of losing Michael forever...

Stefan tried not to think about it, but it was heavy on his mind. And as the pieces of the puzzles fell into place, he was beginning to get a glimpse of a big picture that stacked all the odds against him.

The Institute knew who he was. They knew he'd been looking for them. They probably knew everything about him, down to his monochromatic taste in clothes and horrible Spanish accent. They'd managed to track him across borders with some of the best fake IDs money could buy and had staked him out for _months_.

Worse, they'd already gotten Michael. Taken him from a public place without anyone looking twice. The thought that they'd have any real element of surprise was ostentatious at best, and just plain foolhardy at the worst.

The problem was, what else could they do?

Nothing. They had one option: find the real compound, make their attack, and get Michael back.

End of story.

Resolved, he drew a steady breath. "Well," he said, eyeing the map again. Saul was still standing there over the table, looking somewhat miserable at the prospect. Stefan had no solace to offer him, just the simple facts that failure was not an option. "Then I guess we'd better start looking."

-o-

Michael had watched _Star Trek IV_ once. They had thought it was an apt way to understand the science fiction realm, command structures, and the impact of Star Trek on the modern cultural psyche. That was fine, of course; Michael never cared about the rationale, he just liked the movies.

This one had seemed dated, which of course it was, but he'd found the concepts behind some of the technology interesting, if decidedly preposterous.

But even more than that, the themes.

He could still remember the setting in the beginning. Yosemite National Park. Some place Michael had never seen, would probably never see. It looked epic, and he wondered if rock climbing would be hard without gravity boots to save the day.

His teacher had dismissed the notion: rock climbing was only a moderately useful skill. It had limited contexts.

Michael had always thought that missed the point. The movie said it even, laid it out: the best reason to climb a mountain was simply because it was there.

That was a logic Michael liked. That something was worth doing because it is capable of being done. He had wondered what it would be like to live life under that precept. His time with Stefan had been an experiment in that regard. He didn't need to go to school, but it was an option, so he tried it. He didn't need to watch TV, but the set was already there with cable paid for, so it seemed like an apt choice for passing time.

However, Michael was beginning to see the flaw in that theory. After all, not everything possible was necessarily good. It was something to consider, and he'd thought on it when Stefan tried to convince him to eat a broccoli stir fry, glaringly devoid of anything with a good taste.

It was something entirely else to consider when Dr. Bellucci was administering tests: "Just to see how you react, I think," he said nonchalantly, fondling his tools. A smile widened on his face. "Your responses in extreme situations are quite informative. At this point, you can think of it as throwing spaghetti against a wall. We just want to see what sticks."

The worst part was that Michael could understand the logic. Even as horror mounted in his gut, he could understand the logic, the scientific process. To test, to experiment, to discover-

He swallowed, flinching as the doctor carefully placed electrodes on his forehead, then more on his chest and stomach.

"You are allowed to talk," Dr. Bellucci continued, eyes lingering on Michael.

Michael could talk - but to what end? His throat was strained from screaming and his entire body sore from being stretched out too long. The rumbling in his stomach had given way to a yawning hunger; the simple IV drip barely keeping him hydrated as the hours went on

He supposed his voice would work, but he had nothing to say. His pleas were uselessly. He did not possess Stefan's ability to snark even in the worst of situations.

More than that, speaking was for those who had a voice. Michael figured he'd sold his, just like the Little Mermaid, the instant he turned his back on Stefan and ran.

Dr. Bellucci shrugged. "Pity," he said easily. "The more coherent your reactions, the more I have to analyze. So if at any point you have something you'd like to share, please do."

Michael still didn't speak, but his eyes were glued to the doctor, watching his slow, meticulous movements as he checked the wires and the gauges. There were no instruments this time - no scalpels or retractors or sutures. For a brief second, Michael wondered what that implied, but the thought was cut off before he could even speculate.

After all, thinking was a little hard to do when electricity was jolting through your body.

The burst was fast and sharp, stealing his breath and making his limbs rigid. He could see bright lights exploding behind his eyes, the sparks of surprise too great to even register the pain.

Then, as quickly as it started, the electric pulse cut off, leaving him limp on the gurney, chest heaving, eyes blinking in desperation.

And then there was pain. Like fire tingling in his extremities, vibrating even in his internal organs. His ears buzzed, his body quivered.

"No thoughts?" Dr. Bellucci asked hopefully.

Gaping, Michael rolled his head to the doctor.

"You seemed to have handled that quite well," the doctor continued. "If you could describe the sensation, I could better gauge how atypical your autonomic responses under this level of duress are."

That was a thought. That normal people - _real _people - would take this worse. That it was possible for it to be worse.

Bellucci sighed. "Very well," he said. "Let's try-"

The electric current jolted him again, stronger this time, blinding him for a moment as the sensation racked his body. His jawed clenched, his fingers in a tight fist, as he willed himself to ride it out.

It seemed to last longer this time, and when the electricity stopped, Michael took heaving breaths, striving to keep the tears at bay even as his limbs twitched in the aftermath.

This time, Dr. Bellucci didn't ask. The electrical current started up again before Michael had a chance to brace himself, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, feeling the blood run back down his throat as his body seized with the intensity of the fresh current.

He was gasping when it was done, entire body working to draw in oxygen. Dr. Bellucci was making a notation. "Fascinating," he murmured. "Some patients have died from volts of that nature. You are a remarkable creature, Michael. Shall we see just how remarkable?"

Michael's resolve crumbled. He shook his head, wetting his lips in a desperate attempt for a reprieve.

But his protests were cut off when his body writhed again, trying to escape a pain that he had no escape from, no hope to overcome. All he could do was hold on - hold _on_-

The pulse ended, and this time Michael broke off with a sob, his eyes squeezed shut at it all. Holding on for what? What did he have to survive for? What did he have to fight for? What did he have at all?

He had nothing. _Nothing_.

No family, no life. Not even a pair of clothes to cover himself. He would die like he was created, at the mercy of scientific curiosity. He could be disposed of as medical waste. Nothing more, nothing _more_.

The life with Stefan - it had been a facade in more ways than one. Not just that Stefan had perpetuated a lie, but that Michael had allowed himself to believe he wasn't supposed to be strapped to this table, tortured to death in the name of progress. Maybe he'd be footnoted in a genetic textbook someday, lauded as one of the important scientific achievements.

He wondered if they'd call him Michael.

He wished they'd call him Misha.

The electric current sang again, stronger yet still, nearly eclipsing his consciousness.

His entire existence seemed suspended, kept aloft by a racing current that would either sink him or save him. The pain was his only anchor to reality, a painful reminder that there was still something left in him to deconstruct. His heart vibrating, but didn't beat, his mind racing but thinking of absolutely nothing.

It stopped again and for a second, Michael thought he was dead.

But then the electricity started up again, stronger yet, burning through him piece by piece, cell by cell. He could feel the neurons firing, his cells struggling to retain control against insurmountable odds. His organs seizing, his blood trembling, his brain leafing through his sparse history against his will.

He remembered Peter, making his bed in the middle of the night. Peter, never coming back.

Jericho shaking his head, telling Michael he was meant for more.

Wendy, who never seemed to say a word, but was always looking for a way to hurt someone.

Stefan, on his knees at the beach, ready for a bullet.

Stefan, holding him tight, forehead to forehead, the whisper of _"Why did you do it?"_

The answer was still there, etched into Michael's mind. _For my brother_.

Everything had changed, but that memory hadn't. Michael's decision hadn't.

This time, when the current stopped, Michael didn't even notice. He was still on the beach, still in Stefan's arms, so close to the thing he wanted, the thing he _needed_, and even when the pulse jolted him again, he simply followed Stefan's voice into the oblivion and hoped that things would be better on the other side.

-o-

There were many drawbacks to having a father in the Russian mob. Really, the whole killing for a living, never having a normal social life, being ferried around by uncles who would kill you for the right price - it gave a guy some issues.

But, all things considered, Stefan had to admit there were some perks. Stefan had rejected most of them - the ends didn't always justify the means - but when his back was up against a wall, sometimes it was nice to have the family to fall back on.

And Anatoly was many things, but he was good to his family, even moderately estranged sons on the run in Bolivia. Anatoly was not a sentimental man, but he was a man of passions. The things he chose to fight for or against, were completely pursued. In this way, fatherhood was a universal equalizer, laying low even the humblest of men with Anatoly by his side. There was almost nothing he wouldn't do for one of his sons. After decimating an entire family in Lukas' name, Stefan supposed financing moves under the radar in South America sort of looked like small potatoes.

From Anatoly's perspective anyway. From Stefan's point of view, it meant a hell of a lot. It was his escape route, his chance to regroup. His much needed safe haven for when they pulled this gig off.

And they _would _pull this off. Failure was not an option.

Which meant that calling in a favor with Anatoly was going to be necessary. Stefan wasn't sure why it was so hard to make the phone call - Anatoly would be happy to comply and he could do it with far less fuss than anyone else. Still, Stefan had worked hard to sever his ties with the mob, and falling back on it when things were rough just felt wrong.

But not wrong enough.

Still. Dialing the number was hard. Stefan had been sitting on his bed, in his packed bedroom, staring at his phone for the last half hour trying to make himself do it. Saul was going to be back in a half hour, Ava maybe less. Stefan needed to square away their moving arrangements before then, because once they got started, there wouldn't be time for anything else.

But the idea of giving Anatoly another tie, another way in which Stefan was indebted to him - that was hard. Anatoly never gave without strings attached, even in family. Sure, Anatoly would never ask him to kill someone and would never put Stefan in unnecessary risk, but Stefan liked having leverage to make his father keep his distance. Mostly for Michael's sake; the last thing the kid needed while he was adapting to a free life was a crime lord father mucking the already muddy waters.

Michael.

Alone, hurt, captured. Stefan thought of the look on the kid's face when he found out the truth, the way his body went limp in the market.

And Stefan was worried about giving Anatoly too much access to Michael. If he didn't have a place to hide with Michael, everything else was a moot point.

With that resolution, Stefan dialed the phone.

When a voice he only distantly recognized answered on the third ring, Stefan wasn't surprised. His father had provided him with the most private phone number he gave out to anyone, but Stefan was under no delusion that it had been a direct line.

The gruff voice asked for identification, and Stefan kept it short and simple. "Tell Anatoly it's Stefan. If he wants to see me at Christmas, he'd better call me back. He knows the number."

With that, Stefan hung up. Short and to the point - his father would get the message.

That was why Stefan was not surprised when less than five minutes later, his phone was ringing.

He answered it promptly, and was greeted by his father's booming voice: "Stefan, stoipah. You call so seldom. It makes an old man lonely."

The comfortable familiarity was lined with something Stefan suspected was real longing. He wasn't sure if he should feel heartened that his father really did seem to miss him while they were both in hiding or if he should resent the implication that he'd been a less than perfect son. "Sorry," Stefan said curtly. "I've been a little busy."

"Playing house, I know," Anatoly said, but there was still fondness in his voice. "And a bartender? Really, no son of mine should be tending bar like a common man."

Stefan resisted the urge to sigh. What he was or wasn't supposed to do with his life was something to consider, but the last person he needed advice from was his father, the crime boss. However, this was not the time for this conversation. "I'm actually calling for a reason," Stefan ventured onward, sealing a box with tape.

"Ah, yes, yes," Anatoly said. "Sons cannot call their fathers to talk, but for a favor, the line is always open."

The guilt trip wasn't going to work. "I need to relocate."

There was only a brief hesitation. "So the bartending is not working out then?" Anatoly asked, amusement coloring his tone.

"The bartending is fine," Stefan replied curtly. "But we've run into something of a situation."

The insinuation was subtle at best, but Anatoly didn't need it spelled out to know that it was serious. His tone immediate stiffened, and Stefan could sense his spiking concern even thousands of miles away. "Who?" he demanded. "Who is after you? I have been tailing Fyodor for months now - say the word and he can be gone - just like that, the little selfish ingrate-"

Stefan sat down heavily on the unmade bed. He'd stripped the sheets a while ago and he looked up at the ceiling. Kermit was staring back at him, reminding him just how much packing he had left to do. "No, not Fyodor."

"Your own trouble, then," Anatoly concluded. "Michael?"

Stefan swallowed hard, looking at the partially packed boxes of Michael's things. "He's been taken," he admitted hollowly. "The people I saved him from found him."

The pause on the other end of the line was pregnant and measured. Anatoly had upheld his part of the deal, but it was still clear to Stefan that it was impossible for Anatoly to completely embrace Michael as the son he'd lost.

But that wasn't the issue now. It didn't matter how Anatoly acted around Michael if they didn't get Michael back. And if Anatoly was going to have a relationship with Stefan _or_ Michael, they would need his help setting up a place to recuperate when this was done.

"You know where they are?" Anatoly asked finally. "These people who took your brother?"

The _your brother_ was purposeful, and Stefan took it as the sign of solidarity it was intended to be. "Yeah, we've got our leads."

"Just tell me the location and I can take care of it. Once and for all."

By shooting everything that moved, no doubt. Stefan wasn't going to be opposed to bloodshed on this deal, but it was still primarily a rescue operation. He couldn't trust his father's goons to know who to shoot and who to save, and he wasn't about to risk Michael or any of the other kids getting caught in the crossfire.

Besides, this was his fight. It was his fault Michael was gone. And he was going to rescue the kid his way.

"I have that part under control," Stefan said.

"But, stoipah-"

"I have it under control," Stefan snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Surprisingly, Anatoly accepted the proclamation. "So what, then?" Anatoly asked, somewhat coolly. "You want to say goodbye before you go off on your suicide mission?"

Clever idea, but no. Drawing a steadying breath, Stefan said, "I was hoping you could set up a new place for us to stay."

"New housing?" Anatoly asked, truly curious. "Back in the States?"

There was a note of hope in that question. Stefan had to shake his head. "Someplace in rural Bolivia. I'm thinking outside of Concepcion."

"That's not far from where you are now," Anatoly observed cautiously.

"It doesn't have to be far," Stefan replied. "It just needs to be safe."

There was another small pause. "For the two of you, yes?" Anatoly finally asked.

Stefan let out a breath, feeling relief at his father's acquiescence. "Maybe with some room for visitors, too," Stefan said. "Just in case any family wants to say."

The invitation and gratitude were implicit.

"Consider it done," Anatoly said, his words resolved. "I will have Alexsei contact you within the hour with an address. There will be no rent, no paperwork. Just anonymity and seclusion."

It was too premature to be buoyant, not with success still a long shot, but it still felt good to have something go _right_.

"Oh, and Stefan," Anatoly continued. "Be careful, stoipah."

The softness of the voice almost surprised him. He'd spent years resenting his father, hating everything about him. But since Michael came into both their lives, things were different. Stefan was different and Anatoly's actions could be seen in a different light. Nothing would change the fact that he was a murderer, thief, and a liar, but the small things painted a different picture. The picture of Lukas for Christmas, not heartless and cruel, but an attempt to build a bridge using the only thing they'd ever had in common.

Even now, the offer to destroy the Institute was to protect him. And when Stefan had said now, his father had respected that boundary and taken the role Stefan had requested with a flourish.

It was hard to believe that maybe Michael wasn't the only family in his life. Saul, Ava, even Anatoly - people who mattered to him, who he mattered to.

With a lump in his throat, Stefan found himself smiling. "Don't worry, Dad," he said softly. "I will."

-o-

Refusing Anatoly's assistance was one thing. Having a viable plan of his own was entirely another. They weren't quite looking for a needle in a haystack, and Stefan was pinning his hopes on Saul's connections and Ava's voraciousness that they'd turn up at least a few viable locations to check out.

Ava got back first, barely carrying a haphazard pile of satellite images in her hands. She flopped them heavily on the table, looking up breathlessly at Stefan. "This was all I could get on short notice," she said. "And my guy at the Bureau of Land Management thinks I'm crazy, but it's a 200 mile radius."

Stefan was already standing over the table, laying out the photos as best he could. There was a lot of green space - trees and rivers - and an occasional town.

"I didn't really have time to sort them," she said apologetically. "But the coordinates are in tht bottom corner. It'll take some time-"

But they could put it together like a puzzle, get the big picture and see what stood out.

Stefan was good at puzzles, even if he was never really fond of them. With his cloistered childhood, there hadn't been much to do, and Lukas had loved the things. They'd had stacks of them - puzzles from all over the world, gifts from their uncles and other so-called relatives when they stopped by to pay Anatoly respect. Lukas had a flair for them, too - like everything else in his young life. He could see the missing piece from two feet away, just zero in and grab it to finish the part he was working on.

Stefan wasn't inherently gifted in that way, but he knew how to put things together well enough. It took some trial and error, but he usually got the result he was looking for.

By the time he and Ava had put half their satellite puzzle together, the door opened. It might have been cause for concern, but he'd been expecting Saul and all things considered, they were a bit past the knocking stage.

"Well, well, look who's sitting on the job while I've been out being busy," Saul said, smooth and cocky.

Stefan spared him a look. The confidence in Saul's voice and the swagger in his steps could only be a good sign. "You bring us good news?"

"Of tidings and joy and all that crap," Saul confirmed, holding up a file.

Stefan raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't look like my savior."

Saul snorted. "It's better," he said. "Real estate records for the entire area."

At that, Stefan stopped, getting to his feet to see the stack. "How did you swing that?"

"Every piece of property is registered with the government," Saul said. "Any schmo can find this crap at an assessor's site, but if you want to know about the details of who owns what and for how long, you've got to get access to the full files at the government office."

"Which you got?"

Saul's grin was wider than the Chesire Cat's. "With no small amount of finagling, I'm telling you. Makes Mary's immaculate conception look like a cakewalk."

Ava was standing now, too, looking over at the file with interest. "So all we have to do is look for a facility that fits the bill-"

Stefan knew where she was going. "And then cross reference it with the assessor's history," he said, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.

"Well, damn," Saul said, head cocked. "That almost sounds like a plan."

It was Stefan's turn to grin, eyes flickering from Saul to Ava. "It certainly does."

-o-

Time.

Without a clock, Michael had no way of knowing what time it was. There was a sun outside, but he couldn't figure out if it were day or not.

There was a saying, time healed all wounds. True, time had healed much of his. The incisions were almost invisible now, the vestiges of the electrical shock tests nothing more than a lingering memory. He could almost feel it, the skin stitching together, his body working to mend the wounds.

This meant time was passing, slowly and interminably. He remembered what this was like, this world without time. Minutes and hours and days meant nothing. Years were numbers on a calendar. Aging was an indefinable process, measured in what he could do, not who he was.

Time.

It could have been only hours. It might have been days. For all Michael knew, it had been weeks, months, _years_.

After all, he woke and slept in irregular intervals, awareness coming and going without his consent. He did not miss it when it was gone, nor did he seek to let it go when he had it. That made it hard to understand the numbers, even when they were very clear to him. In everything, his eyesight was still 20/20, but crystal clear vision couldn't show him what he wanted to see.

A way out. _Hope_.

But he had none. He had nothing. He was strapped to a table, hungry and cold. The pain from the various procedures were only memories, but his body still ached from its stasis. He did not know how long it would be before his muscles atrophied, his skin rebelled with bed sores, his organs weakened from disuse. Weeks, maybe. A month.

It didn't matter. Time didn't matter. Because Michael had already given up.

He did not look when Dr. Bellucci came in the room again. Sometimes his visits were short and to the point, adjusting a monitor, making notations. Others, they involved poking and prodding. Testing. Sometimes his reflexes. Once breaking a bone just to see how fast it healed.

Funny, Michael couldn't remember which bone. He didn't even know if it was still broken.

Sometimes, the doctor put on an extra IV bag. Occasionally he changed the catheter. Once he force fed him some sludge to "keep up his strength."

Michael did not resist. Michael did not comment. Michael did not look him in the eyes.

The doctor was humming something this time, and he seemed to be moving more briskly than normal. Michael could only figure that his mood was brighter for some reason, though he did not know whether or not that was a good thing.

Dr. Bellucci was more forthcoming than Jericho. "Another test today, Michael," he said cheerfully as he rustled around with an IV bag.

Michael kept his eyes fixed on a point on the ceiling. A small mark. It had been nicked, possibly when the large medical equipment had been moved inside.

There was a jostling on his arm. "I'm quite excited about this one," the doctor continued. "As a subject, you have been more reticent than I expected. The other children are more open in their feelings, though somewhat limited in their capacity to verbalize what they feel and experience."

Michael wondered instead if the marred ceiling was actually a manufacturing error. A mistake made at its conception, perhaps at a factory in China or Taiwan.

"While I have no viable means of creating a higher level of self-awareness in them, I am pleased that I have alternative methods of eliciting conversation from you," Bellucci said.

At that, a chill traveled down Michael's spine, his eyes flicking to Bellucci.

The doctor was smiling, his normal avuncular smile, a twinkle gleaming in his eyes. "And I think you'll be pleased to know that this experiment will be the least painful of them all. In fact, I imagine you won't feel much at all physically. You could even think of this as a respite of sorts."

With that, Dr. Bellucci injected something into the IV, a clear liquid, indistinguishable from the normal saline he received.

The panic was reflexive, even when he knew better. Criminals had the right to remain silent, but Michael had no such guarantees.

Suddenly his stomach roiled and his vision flashed white.

"It is a powerful drug," Dr. Bellucci advised. "It won't take long for you to feel its full effects."

Michael's lack of time perception notwithstanding, the effects came on hard and fast. At first, everything tingled, like pins and needles. He was hit with a wave of heat before everything went cold. His heart rate increased rapidly, his entire body pulsating with a sudden adrenaline that was nearly uncontrollable.

With no outlet, Michael felt himself trembling, hairs rising on his arms as goosebumps prickled the skin of his arms and chest. He was keenly aware then of everything around him, of the air molecules colliding with his body, the stale air being processed in his lungs.

Dr. Bellucci was right; it didn't hurt. But it was disconcerting and overwhelming; a deep need to move with no ability to do so. His mouth opened with a gasping breath as he tried to pull the oxygen fast enough for his overtaxed body. Every part of him was working overtime but with no discernible end, and yet he felt lightheaded with exertion and he came to the understanding that he might pass out as his vision almost whited out completely.

But consciousness did not leave him - not completely. Instead, he lingered for a moment in the whiteness before it retreated to a more acceptable level. The room was still the same - the machines and the monitors - but he seemed to be alone now.

Then Michael realized that wasn't all that was different.

He was sitting up.

Surprised, he looked down at himself, seeing a pair of jeans and the Einstein t-shirt he'd bought during his first real shopping trip. Holding out his arms, they were unchained and unmarred.

Experimentally, Michael slid off the gurney, his tennis shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor.

Freedom.

The thought came to him unbidden, and it was too real to deny. This was what he'd long for, the thing he'd craved. A chance to escape. A chance to _be_.

"And where do you think you're going?" a voice asked.

Startled, Michael turned and saw that the room was not as empty as he might have thought. True, Bellucci seemed to be gone, but there, standing at the end of the bed in his place, was Stefan.

The dark hair, the scar on his face.

Michael's heart lurched. "Stefan."

The other man quirked something of a sardonic smile, shrugging a bit. "Who were you expecting?"

"No one," Michael said honestly. "I thought you would have given up on me."

"And why would I do that?" Stefan prompted.

Michael blinked, the memory almost too painful to verbalize. "I hurt you."

"It's just part of who you are, Michael," Stefan said.

Michael shook his head, the denials almost catching in his throat. "I don't want it to be that way."

Stefan's smile was almost sympathetic. "There are some things you can't fight. You can feel that, can't you? The power to hurt and kill lurking inside of you?"

Michael shook his head. "No," he lied, and inexplicably his lower jaw quivered. He dropped his gaze. "At least I don't want to."

"But you can't fight it sometimes."

Michael looked up again, feeling more desperate. "I didn't mean to hurt you. It just happened. The emotions were too much, and it just _happened_."

"It's quite alright, Michael," Stefan continued, and his voice sounded funny. Reserved. "As I said, this is who you are."

This was who he was. A killer. Someone who would turn on the one person who had showed him true and unselfish kindness. He deserved this rebuff. Stefan's lack of malice was more of a mercy than he could have hoped to receive.

Still, it was hard. Tears welled in his eyes. "I just wanted to be your brother," he admitted.

Stefan sighed. "Oh, Michael. You are a curious case. The desire to be something you're not has deluded you."

Michael shook his head. "It wasn't like that. You said-"

"Tell me more about the powers you used," Stefan interjected.

Michael paused, cocking his head. "But...I don't understand."

"You do," Stefan prompted, an unfamiliar twinkle in his eyes. "You said you couldn't control them. Explain what it felt like."

Stefan never wanted to talk about the powers, not like that. Even if Stefan hated him, that wouldn't be the thing he'd ask about. In fact, if Stefan truly understood what Michael was, he might even kill Michael himself. A good deed. Stefan didn't think he was a good person, but Michael knew he was.

Michael knew Stefan.

This wasn't Stefan.

The realization made him panic, his breath lurching. He edged toward the door, shaking his head. "This is a hallucination," he said decidedly. He remembered the drug Bellucci had administered. "This is how he wants me to talk."

"It's not important," Stefan prompted, standing eerily still. "I'm here now. We can talk. Can't we?"

Michael wanted to. He really wanted to. He wanted Stefan to be there. He wanted to see him again before all of this was over. He wanted the chance to say he was sorry, to say that Stefan never should have lied to begin with, that Michael just wasn't worth it.

And if he wanted that chance - he had to run.

Now.

The need to move was overpowering and he turned on his heel, sprinting for the door. But when he reached the handle, it disappeared and Michael was grappling at a blank wall.

Turning in horror, Stefan was still standing at the end of the bed, but he wasn't wearing the black t-shirt anymore, but a white lab coat, an ill-placed smile on his face. "You simply need to focus, Michael. Let it happen. Just like before."

Just like before. Just like before?

Michael shook his head. "I don't know how it happened before," he said, the admission both honest and desperate.

"Think hard. Tell me what we were doing when they manifested themselves," Stefan said.

But it wasn't Stefan, Michael reminded himself.

He had to leave.

If the door didn't work, then the window. Or a ceiling tile.

He looked up. There it was - the defective tile. He could move it; he could pull himself out and climb out.

"Focus," Stefan said. "I need you to focus."

Michael sneered, climbing on the bed. "You're not my brother."

Reaching, his fingers brushed the tile, but the minute he pressed, the expanse was flat and void.

Shocked, he looked back to Stefan's form, which shook its head. "You have no brother, Michael," it said. "You were created in a lab. You will be exterminated in a lab when your usefulness is spent. So, for both our sakes, tell me what I want to know. Tell me about your powers."

The urge to run was paramount, but the inklings of reality were taking hold. This was a hallucination. He couldn't run in a hallucination. He couldn't escape because he was still tied to a bed.

That knowledge made reality shift, spinning him at a dizzying pace until he was on his back again, looking up. This time he could see the IV in his arm, the blank canvas of his skin, the cuffs on his arms, his legs.

But Stefan.

It was still _Stefan_.

Stefan walked closer, leaning forward. "Tell me what you did," he said, a demand and a plea.

Michael's stomach turned and he closed his eyes, shaking his head.

A hand grasped his arm, shaking him. "Tell me."

The order was vehement now, cutting through his hazy mind with a clarity that shook him entirely.

His eyes snapped open, and Stefan's face was close, eyes blazing, bright light exuding from behind him. The entire room seemed to be on fire, burning with a flame so hot that it consumed things instantaneously. The door, the walls, the ceiling. The defective tile, the medical equipment, all of it until there was just Michael and Stefan.

Stefan and Michael.

"Tell me about why you hurt me," he said.

Delusion or not, Stefan deserved an answer.

Stefan deserved so much.

He choked on a sob, wanting to fight it but knowing he couldn't. He would answer this question. He would answer all of the questions, one after another after another until daylight broke and darkness fell, whichever came first, whichever came last.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: We're closing in on the climax here :) Thanks!

CHAPTER TEN

There had been a time when Stefan had considered if God existed, if He had some kind of so-called plan in his magnificent omniscience. Or maybe it was something like fate, the universe working its way to some perfect, definable destination.

Stefan wasn't averse to tossing a prayer or two God's way when things got sticky, but this? Wasn't so much divine providence or a twist of fate as it was plain hard work.

Harder than studying at college. Way harder than knocking heads for Konstantin.

All night, Ava and Stefan went over the satellite images, ruling out square foot after square foot. Some facilities too small; some not well enough fortified. When they found a candidate, they ran it by Saul, who cross-referenced the suggested address with his list.

There had been a number of possibilities. Each one progressively ruled out. Some places hadn't been sold recently enough; others by buyers that simply checked out.

"But maybe that's the thing," Stefan finally said. It was dark outside, but he wasn't sure if it was night or morning. They had been working relentlessly, no breaks, no nothing.

Ava groaned, sitting back in her chair and looking at the ceiling. "The thing is that every buyer has a strong alibi?" she asked tiredly. She threw a hand in the air, sarcasm dripping from her words. "Brilliant!"

"No, think about it," Stefan said, working past the suffused weariness in his body with a growing surge of adrenaline. "They're trying to hide. They won't want to leave a trail."

Saul pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know, that's why we're looking for buyers with squeaky clean histories but no substantial background." He shook his head, looking at Stefan. "We're looking for that."

Stefan's brain was working, putting the pieces together as best he could. It was late - too late - and the hand of God or the workings of fate, Stefan had to get this. Standing, he looked over the pictures, shaking his head, following the train of thought as it slowly unraveled in his mind. "But we're not looking at places that haven't been sold recently."

"That's because the Institute has only been in Bolivia a year at most," Saul reminded him. "Unless you think we imagined the place in Florida we broke into last time."

"Yeah, but just because they _moved_ here doesn't mean that they _bought _it," Stefan pointed out.

Ava sat up again. "Renting."

Saul's face showed slow understanding. "Renting procedures wouldn't show up the same way on an assessor's statement," he said thoughtfully.

"But they'd still be registered as a tenant property," Stefan said, feeling butterflies flitting in his stomach. "How many properties have we identified with a tenant option available?"

Saul flipped through his notes quickly. "Rental properties," he muttered. "No, no - wait." He stopped on a page, holding it closer. He shook his head extracting the page and holding it out. "Someone double check me, my eyes can hardly see straight anymore."

Tension mounting, Stefan snatched the paper, eyes scanning it quickly. The size, the location. When it was last purchased. No major liens against the property. Up to code, maintained documented inspection from the government. Legally registered as a rental property.

It was a squeaky clean property. "This one," Stefan said, still processing all the information. "It's just west of the forest, near a paved access road. Outside of Mineros."

Ava quickly riffled through her papers, searching for the right one. "Yes, we considered this one," she said, holding a paper aloft. "It has the space and the right amenities."

"Who's the renter?" Saul asked.

Stefan's eyes scanned it further. "A...J.M. Barrie," he said with a shrug. "Any history on the guy?"

Saul frowned.

Ava's brow furrowed. "Wait, who?"

"J.M. Barrie," Stefan repeated. "You know him?"

"Not personally, but he's a writer. British, early nineteenth century," she said.

"Well, I'm sure there's more than one J.M. Barrie in the world," Saul ventured.

But there was something off about this. "What did he write?" Stefan asked.

Ava chewed her lip. "It's been a long time since my Brit Lit class," she said. "English was my double major in college with journalism."

"So you don't remember anything he wrote?" Stefan prompted.

"Just _Peter Pan_," she said with a shrug. "I'd have to look up for more-"

Stefan's breath caught in his throat. "_Peter Pan_?" he asked, voice strained and barely a whisper.

Stefan remembered the names. John, Michael, Peter, Wendy. One of Jericho's demented twists, naming his genetically engineered assassins after children in perpetual childhood. Ironic, of course, since Jericho's machinations had deprived his own lost boys and girls from any childhood whatsoever.

Coincidence? Probably possible, if he had to consider the odds. But not likely.

The hours of work and lack of rest fell by the wayside; Stefan's resolved hardened again, solidified by the growing rage within him. The Institute had manipulated so much, played all their cards, and Stefan was ready to lay it all on the line and win back the pot. It would be a winner takes all proposition, one he didn't intend to lose.

Jaw set, Stefan walked over to Ava, looking at her satellite image. "This is the place," he said.

"But how can we be sure?" Ava asked.

He lifted his eyes to hers. "I just am."

Maybe it was the tone of his voice, maybe it was the hard glint in his eyes, but she seemed to know better than to disagree.

Saul stepped closer. "The location may be remote, but it's actually not that well fortified," he observed. He pointed to the perimeter. "That fencing looks pretty conventional and there aren't good points of observation that provide a holistic view."

"They probably have security measures in place," Ava concluded.

But Stefan shook his head. "This place isn't the fortress they had before," he said. "They've been tracking us, so they think they have the leg up on us. There are measures in place, but two to one, they're not like they used to be."

"Yeah, but you saw the video feed of Michael's capture," Saul pointed out. "Maybe they've just updated their security protocols."

The thought made Stefan cringe. Wendy's presence had been an unexpected element, but Saul was right. It wasn't coincidence that she was in the field to capture Michael. Jericho had probably been so concerned with getting his asking price for his little assets that he didn't consider how valuable they could be for his own protection. Not even Michael had stood a chance against Wendy. With one little girl, Stefan figured the Institute could keep the other kids in check and successfully protect against intruders. After all, one thought, and Wendy's security detail was complete. No messy protocols, no paying of extra staff, no stockpiling of weaponry.

"It doesn't matter," Stefan said. "Traditional security, updated protocols - we attack it all the same. This forest will give us ample cover so we can get close enough. We'll cut through the fencing, and sneak up on the back, to this door here." He indicated a door on the backside. "If it looks too heavily guarded, we can easily slip around to another side."

"Without much prep time, we won't know what kind of doors we're breaking down," Saul said.

"Look at the age of this building," Ava noted. "It's hardly new construction and the renovations last year were minor."

"Which means we're probably looking at a more antiquated system," Stefan concluded.

Saul straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "Lucky we loaded up on explosives, then."

"It also means that there should be plenty of places to round everyone up," Stefan said. He rubbed his chin. "My main goal will be to get Michael. Saul, can you take care of the security?"

His forehead scrunched thoughtfully. "The old fashioned kind, yes," he said. "I mean, once we get to the security headquarters, it shouldn't be hard to short things out and block off communications. We can also control the locking mechanisms from there, I figure."

"What about the staff?" Stefan asked.

Saul shrugged. "Taser them and lock them up. Let the authorities do the real cleanup."

"Good," Stefan said. "And then if we have the security headquarters, we should be able to secure the kids in their rooms, right?"

"I would think," Saul said. "But we won't know for sure until we get in there."

Stefan nodded, looking over the schematics again. "Then I think we're good to go."

"But what am I going to do?" Ava asked.

Stefan looked up at her, surprised. "Run your story and make sure the authorities are on time."

She looked a little dumbfounded. "I'm going with you."

Stefan was almost grateful when Saul intervened. "This is going to be a pretty hard core operation," he said, almost gently. "We're talking heavily artillery, with likely hostiles on the inside."

What Saul conveniently didn't say was that there was a chance they wouldn't be walking away from this. It was a fact they weren't willing to voice, but Saul knew the odds as well as Stefan did. They had invested themselves a long time ago into this mission, even if it was a suicide run, and that was that. Ava had been an integral part of the planning, but Stefan had not considered her risking her life for this.

Ava, however, in true Ava form, seemed to have different ideas. "I know that," she said curtly, her shoulders squared and her tone bristled. "But I'm a part of this, now."

Stefan sighed, looking at her. "Ava, you've been amazing. We couldn't have gotten this far without you-"

She shook her head, defiant. "I get that you have more on the line, Stefan, I do," she said. "But you're not the only one willing to lay down their life because something is right. You want to get Michael back, but this is more than that, and even if you can't see it, I can. I'm going."

Stefan gaped, not knowing quite what to say. Finally, he managed, "Do you even know how to use a gun."

Her expression darkened, almost perturbed. She picked up the Glock Stefan had discarded hours ago on the table. In swift, easy motions, she unloaded it, checked the cartridge, before snapping the ammunition back on and prepping the weapon.

When finished, she looked at Stefan plainly.

And what was Stefan going to say? Was he going to play the chivalrous guy? Tell her that she couldn't stake her life? Was he going to say that he cared about her, that he didn't want to see her hurt? Maybe just tell her that this was his fight, and his alone?

The answer was none of the above.

With a short nod, he took a breath. "Okay, then," he said. "You're with Saul. We'll crash for a few hours, but we need to be on the road in the morning. We've got a drive ahead of us."

Ava nodded resolutely. Saul made a noise in the back of his throat, shaking his head. "At least the lack of sleep will mirror our lack of preparation in every other part of the plan," he grumbled.

Not that it mattered. Stefan didn't think he'd be able to sleep, not even if he wanted to. His mind wasn't preoccupied with the trip there or their lack of experience or the insurmountable odds.His mind was on Michael, his _brother_, who he was going to get back.

Tomorrow. He would see Michael tomorrow. One way or another.

-o-

He was tired.

Such a feeling actually was not common for Michael, something he'd learned to attribute to his enhanced DNA. He's often outlasted Stefan during all-night movie marathons, always vying for another round of cards or snacks when Stefan was whining and complaining about wanting to sleep.

Still, he'd been tired before. He knew what it was like to want to rest. Sometimes after he ran a particularly long route or played back to back games of tennis, he'd had the urge to lay back and recuperate. In the mornings, he was often prone to lamenting his lack of wakefulness to Stefan, dragging his feet in a moderate display of tiredness to milk his would-be brother for some pancakes and eggs, or even some sausage.

However, like so many things in his short life, Michael's understanding of tiredness had been in theory only.

At least, it had been.

Now Michael was _tired_.

His entire body ached with a lack of true rest, his consciousness weary to what might have been his very soul, if he had such a thing. He was tired in the deepest recesses of his brain, not just in need of sleep but in need of refuge. Sleep would not fix the pervasive weariness in his mind and soul.

In fact, Michael wasn't sure anything would fix it.

No, that wasn't true. One thing would fix it. One inevitable out. A week ago, he would have dreaded the prospect of death. Now, it was a coveted prospect.

The eternal rest. Where there was no torture, no helplessness. No loss, no regret.

No brothers.

No joy.

Nothing.

He had been born of scientific obsession and he would die as a footnote in the name of advancement. Fitting end to a failed project.

Michael no longer looked at the clock on the wall. He no longer counted the beats of his heart. He simply was, tied to the world by the tethers on his wrists and feet.

The hallucinogenic had worn off a while before, a process that had left Michael retching and confused. People from his life came and went. Peter, with his red hair. John, with the question to leave. Anatoly, with his reserved love. Raquel, with her chest out and face composed. Stefan, asking him _why_.

Dr. Bellucci had not left this time, staying making notes while Michael finished detoxing. The doctor went so far as to tilt Michael slightly to the side so he would not choke on his vomit, but he had done nothing to clean any of it up.

After some period of time, possibly hours, maybe days, maybe only seconds, the doctor stood again, looking at Michael with a quizzical expression. "It has been some time since your last hallucination," he observed. "Am I correct?"

Michael looked at him blankly.

"Michael, please, remember the lesson here."

Michael merely blinked.

"I will have my answers, one way or another," Dr. Bellucci said patiently. "You can choose how fast this ends."

Michael could not control a tremor through his body.

"So, I ask again," Dr. Bellucci said evenly. "You are no longer hallucinating, correct?"

Michael nodded obediently.

Dr. Bellucci's face broke into a smile. "Very good," he said. "I must say, that last experiment was quite informative."

Michael's throat was dry. He did not know if a reply was desired from him.

"And I do appreciate your work in it," Dr. Bellucci continued. "So I think, perhaps, our work here is almost done."

The promise of a reprieve was foreign, almost impossible to comprehend. He wondered briefly if this was another hallucination, something conceived by his subconscious to trick him into a response. A test, just like one of Jericho's. Maybe just a sign of pure psychosis. People lost their minds in torture, this much Michael knew.

But he did not hallucinate for his pleasure. None of the others had offered hope. And while Michael knew in the doctor's kind tone was a condemnation, he also understood the words as a salvation.

Blessed and undeserved. But much welcomed.

"I do, however, have one last test I'd like to try," Dr. Bellucci said.

Michael's heart lurched in his chest.

Then, the doctor settled a hand on his shoulder. "And let me tell you," he promised, a brightness twinkling in his eyes like a child's on Christmas morning. "This one's going to be fun."

-o-

They had made good time.

At least, that was what Stefan was trying to tell himself. It was almost nightfall - the trip had taken most of the day, even with Stefan's somewhat creative interpretation of the speed limit. Fortunately, the Bolivian countryside was not well policed and, better still, the van Saul had purchased (in cash, to be safe) had more horsepower than its rusty exterior may have suggested.

Though they had taken turns driving, Stefan had not gotten much sleep. He was well beyond tiredness, deeply gripped by the need to see Michael, to save him.

The thought that the only thing between the two of them was a stretch of road, a couple of trees, and a chain link fence was a cold comfort.

So that made scoping out the facility even more tedious. They'd driven all night, defied all speed limit laws, trespassed through the woods and were there - outside the facility rented by J.M. Barrie.

It looked like the satellite photo. The forest was dense around it, but easy to navigate with a GPS. The chain link fence was even more unimpressive in person. Though tall, it was clearly not well fortified. The roll of barbed wire at the top was somewhat of a deterrent, but Stefan knew they had no intention of climbing.

The facility itself was more imposing. It was a boxy building, sitting low and wide on the ground. The walls were plain, covered with a crisp layer of tan paint. Windows were sparse, doorways even more so, and the security cameras were plainly visible to the untrained eye. While circling the building in a recon sweep, they'd found the main access road better manned, with a pair of guards at a more impressive looking gate. But beyond that, the grounds seemed mostly barren.

Saul edged in behind him, pressed against a tree trunk. "So you satisfied yet, Smirnoff?" he asked.

Stefan glanced over at Ava, who was tucked behind another tree.

She shrugged. "It's what we expected."

What they expected. Low level security was a sign of overconfidence or an alternative security force. Probably both.

And yet, here they were. Ava's short hair was flat against her head, her figure hidden in the fatigues she was wearing. Saul's face glistened with sweat, his dark eyes focused and his expression pinched.

His friends, both by his side. They'd come so far with him, and now it was up to him to give them that one last final push - knowing it could mean their deaths.

If security caught them, it would only take one bullet a piece. If they ran into Wendy, not even that. They said they were willing to make this sacrifice, for Stefan, for Michael, for what was right, but issuing what could be a death sentence was no small task.

His Uncle Lev had been right. He was soft.

But not that soft.

Because Michael was _there. _Stefan could feel it. Beyond the fence, beyond the security - his brother was there. The kid had already given up his entire childhood; Stefan could not afford to let Michael sacrifice anything else. Saul and Ava - they had both lived. They'd made their choices, good and bad, and they were willing to give themselves up the same as Stefan was. This wasn't Michael's choice. He'd been taken against his will, and Stefan had to rectify that.

With a tight nod, Stefan pulled his gun closer, his other hand reaching for the wire cutters. "Then let's do this."

They'd made their plan in haste, but executed it with even quicker efficiency. Stefan held his gun at the ready as Ava and Saul worked at the fence. It was a short matter of minutes before a chunk large enough to slip through was removed. Ava ducked under first, coming to her feet with her gun up and ready. Saul followed, and with one look around, Stefan made his way into the perimeter.

From there, the distance to the building was short, and they pressed themselves against the tan exterior, just behind the view of the security camera. With a glance to Ava and Saul, Stefan lifted his gun, waiting until they'd both ducked their heads before he fired.

One clean shot and no one would see them coming.

Heart pounding, Stefan led the way toward the doorway, keeping himself tight against the wall. Seeing the doorway was clear, Stefan signaled Saul over, who went to his knees, pulling a pair of charges from his bag. It would be a little messy, but effective, and they all turned away as the charges went off, small pops in the Bolivian forest, effectively disabling the alarm and undoing the latch.

Guns ready, Stefan led the way, sweeping the inside with quick movements, scanning for any sign of movement.

There was none. It appeared to be a storage room, and a sparsely used one at that. There was a line of shelves along one wall, a few boxes on them, but it was mostly barren, except for a door at the far end.

Heading toward it, Stefan glanced behind him, watching as Ava followed suit, Saul pulling up the rear.

At the next door, Stefan hesitated. Diminished security or not, they were going to run into company - and soon. And that would be when the real fun began.

With a steadying breath, Stefan tested the handle, finding it unlocked. Slowly, cautiously, he turned it, opening it only a sliver at first.

Peeking through, he could see dim fluorescent lights, flickering in an empty hallway.

It would have to do.

Swinging the door open the rest of the way, Stefan led with his gun.

But the hallway really was empty.

Stefan frowned, trying to feel reassured by this. They'd anticipated a lower level of security, so this was expected.

Except Stefan_ knew_ what the Institute was capable of. This wasn't lax security, it was different security. Maybe they didn't care who got in because they had confidence that they'd never get out.

Like Michael.

Stefan swallowed hard, and let that thought strengthen him.

Ava and Saul were still ready behind him, Ava at his back and Saul taking up rear, gun trained on whatever might come around the corner.

Without a word, they started moving. Stefan led them around the corner, tense and ready for a foe that simply wasn't there. They passed empty rooms, checking each one, finding it as barren as the last. The first room that looked used was a laboratory of some sort, vaguely reminiscent of the one they'd found on their first run over a year ago.

It was quiet, lights off and equipment stowed. Stefan was sure there was damning evidence there, but he didn't have time for it. The clean up team could do what they wanted with it - Stefan just wanted Michael.

Turning another corner, Stefan found another clear hallway, lined with rooms. Moving to the first door, he tried the handle, surprised to find it locked. Peeking inside the window, it was dark.

"Stefan," Ava's voice was a whisper in his ear. "What-"

Her question was cut short with a strangled gasp as the small eyes of a child came into view. The child was almost impossible to see in the dark, save the whites of the eyes and the pale bicolored irises that seemed to illuminate the darkness.

"I guess we found the kids," Stefan breathed.

"They're so young," Ava said, almost pained.

"Leave the doors locked," Stefan ordered, moving down the hall. He glanced in each room, not surprised to see children in each one. "And if we haven't had any company yet, we will soon."

He was moving quickly now, his voice rough with no pretense of secrecy. He was ready for the guard when he rounded the corner, taking him out easily with a tranquilizer round.

Quickly, he grabbed the fallen guard under the armpits, dragging him back down the hallway, to the supply closet. It took some work to stuff the body inside, but with Saul's help, they got him positioned so it would shut.

Stepping back, Saul eyed it. "You have a key?"

With a dry look, Stefan pulled out his gun, firing a few rounds at the lock until it was marred beyond use. "That should hold."

At the end of the hallway, Ava hissed at them. "I think we're about to have a little company."

Jogging forward, Stefan peeked around the corner, quickly seeing what Ava was talking about.

Pulling back, he grimaced. "Only five of them," he said. "But they're armed. You guys think you can handle it?"

Saul snorted wetly. "Please, Smirnoff," he said. "I wrangled a pair of triplets back in Miami before I hopped the plane down here. Five guards is nothing."

Ava's face scrunched up in distaste, but Stefan had to grin. "You two know what you're supposed to do?" he asked.

"Knock out anything that moves, lock them up," Ava reported dutifully.

"We've got security," Saul assured him. "What about you? You know where you're going?"

There sound of footsteps was getting louder. "Run like hell in the other direction," he said. "Michael's not going to be with security, he'll be someplace else. If we haven't come across him yet, I will soon."

"Once we have the security center, we'll flush out any others," Saul promised.

"Great, oh and one more thing?" Stefan asked, edging toward the end of the hall again.

"Name it," Saul said.

"Cover me," Stefan said, a second before he jumped into the open hallway.

The guards were closer than he'd anticipated, and he sprayed a shower of real bullets at them, too high to do real damage, but enough to send them running for cover. As he broke into a run, Ava and Saul picked up the cover fire, giving Stefan time to make a break for the far end of the hallway.

He sprinted for all he was worth, putting his feet to the linoleum as if his life depended on it. Which, it sort of did.

More importantly, Michael's life depended on it.

And if that wasn't motivation enough, nothing else would be.

The sound of gunfire faded away, growing faint and sporadic. By the time he was halfway down the new hallway, it was over altogether. He had to believe it was a gunfight Saul and Ava had won. There was no time to consider failure.

With that determination, he slowed his pace, falling back into search and rescue mode. These rooms were different than before - medical labs, but less for research. There were no computers, just medical equipment. Machines Stefan didn't recognize, tools he didn't want to understand.

Even from a few yards away, Stefan could tell one room was different.

Light pooled on the floor in front of the room, shining from the windowed doorway.

Stefan's heart skipped a beat, and he gritted his teeth together. He mentally counted the bullets in his gun, stepping slow and quiet as he approached.

He couldn't be sure who it was, but somehow he just _knew_. It could have been a scientist working late, a security guard taking a nap, a child under observation-

But it wasn't.

It _wasn't_.

Stefan's breath was short, ragged, his fingers sweaty on the trigger. He'd come so far and he was so close - he couldn't screw it up, he couldn't screw this up-

He stopped short of the door, easing himself forward, craning his head to catch a glimpse of what was inside.

That was when he heard the voice.

Older, male. Warm and harmonic. A good storyteller. The lilting rise and fall was one he recognized. One he'd heard before.

Stefan's stomach turned. The man was turned away from him, looking toward the gurney in his room. But Stefan knew that posture. Knew the slightly slouched gait. He'd only met the man once, one long conversation in St. Louis. But Stefan didn't forget people who betrayed him, not even a little. He still remembered Fisher Lee Redwine, pregnant with a gun in her hand as she stole everything Stefan had. He remembered the look on Uncle Lev's face when he shrugged and said it was just business.

And he remembered Dr. Bellucci's convincing story, the intricate lie, designed to mislead and milk, perfectly executed and remorselessly completed.

Bellucci. Jericho's old friend. It made sense that if they really were still friends, then Bellucci would have been in on the project. There was no way to be friends with Jericho and _not_ be involved, not given how deeply Jericho was into it. Stefan should have suspected, should have taken better measures, but he'd been blind, so willfully ignorant, and now Bellucci's betrayal was more than tipping Jericho off.

It was taking Michael.

Because Bellucci wasn't just talking to himself. He was talking to someone on the bed. It was impossible to see who it was, but Stefan would know those lanky limbs anywhere. Blonde hair peeking out from behind the doctor.

Michael.

He'd come so far, staked so much on finding his brother, and now they were only a doorway apart, and it was too far, too long, and Stefan wasn't going to wait anymore.

Cocking the gun, he put his hand on the door. It was time to end this. It was time to bring Michael home.

Once and for all.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: And some more action :)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There was solace in knowing it would be over soon. Meager though it was, Michael had to cling to that. This existence was fleeting. He healed quickly, but he was not indestructible. Whatever came beyond that, Michael could not be sure.

He was marginally well versed in the various religious beliefs about the afterlife. The concept of reincarnation. The age old belief of Heaven and Hell. Merging one's essence with the earth, seeing one's family once again.

Michael had studied a little bit of all of them, but was not decided on which he believed to be most plausible. There were scientific considerations, of course, but also certain philosophical reasonings to weigh.

Yet, poised so close to the end of his existence, he was forced to suddenly grapple with not only his demise, but his origins. What made a life real? What endowed the soul? Jericho could splice genes in a petri dish, but could he procure a soul in the process? Was Michael even a viable candidate for any afterlife? Or was there just nothing beyond this?

And how wrong was it that either way, it was still something he craved.

The ache in his limbs was pervasive now, the disuse and immobility taking its toll. Michael supposed that was a minor concern, but it bothered him nonetheless.

Just like Bellucci's nonchalant preparations bothered him. He should have been used to it. Watching the doctor work had been one of his only pastimes during his stay in this room. The doctor was easy in his approach, methodical in his execution.

But this procedure - it was more intensive than the rest. No scalpels, no electrodes. But the doctor mixed his ingredients carefully, precise measurements made to a small tuned hummed under his breath.

It was not a song Michael recognized, but it would be the last one he ever heard. Too cheery for one's last moments, but Michael had no say in such things.

The song cut off as the doctor pursed his lips, picking up a syringe and injecting it into his concoction. With care, he extracted some, the exact amount Michael could not be sure.

Lifting the syringe again, the doctor held it up to the light, tapping it gently with a satisfied noise in the back of his throat.

Then he smiled at Michael. "Just about ready here," he said. "You have been quite patient, though. You are still welcome to express your feelings. I am curious, up until the very end."

Curious. A wayward emotion Michael had once harbored. He'd been curious the day Stefan broke him out, and every day since, right up until the day he got home early and found Stefan alone with Ava in the apartment.

He'd believed curiosity was a saving grace. What made life worth living. It had worked for Curious George and the Man in the Yellow Hat, so why not? Why _not_?

Because not every answer was worth knowing. Not every question is worth asking.

If he could go back, he would. Stay out with his friends longer. Let Stefan explain before he reacted. Stayed in his room instead of going with Stefan that first night.

Choices. Curiosity. Selfhood.

Things Michael didn't have anymore. Things maybe he never had.

"It is curious," Dr. Bellucci said, slowly, the syringe still in his hand as he regarded Michael uncertainly. "That in everything I have done to you, you have made no efforts to defend yourself."

Michael blinked, mouth too dry to even try to speak. It was a surreal revelation, the recollection that it was within his power to inflict harm. It had always been a last resort to him, ever since he first killed the man during one of Jericho's tests. The surge of power always made him feel out of control, like his very DNA was throbbing against his cell walls, threatening to break loose. And to see the evidence of that power, to see human life crumble and fall apart, helpless and impotent - it was like ash in his mouth, twisting his gut and haunting his dreams.

The power to kill was a curse, not a tool. He could still see the man's blue eyes the second before the light dimmed in them forever.

Never again, he'd promised. He'd used his powers to right wrongs, but not to kill. Not until Stefan...

Dr. Bellucci was wrong. Maybe not to punish Michael, but to continue the work. Michael should be destroyed, not studied. All traces of the chimera technology that Jericho developed had no place in a civilized world - in _any _world.

But killing Dr. Bellucci...it had simply never occurred to him. In the torture, he had longed for his own death, for any kind of release, but the thought of killing to achieve it had never been on on his mind.

"It is that weakness I have been working to pinpoint," Dr. Bellucci continued. "My hope is that with additional gene therapy, I can potentially weed out your moral inhibitions and allow you to access your powers more freely. You are inhibiting yourself, Michael. Keeping yourself from the greatness Jericho intended for you."

Greatness for Jericho, not for Michael. Victory in the name of science and the almighty dollar, not Michael's well being.

Dr. Bellucci's smile was banal as he held up the syringe again. "I'm afraid the testing process will be quite unorthodox," he said, that same note of false apology in his voice. "I have never attempted genetic manipulation on a live patient before, so I can't tell you what it will be like."

The syringe was coming closer to him and Michael felt himself flinch. The urge to speak for mercy was still there, but Michael quashed it as the futile gesture that it would be. He had to accept his fate. He could not prevent it, and it was not his fault. No curiosity. No control. No soul.

He had to let go, let go, let _go_...

Or...

The thought flashed in his mind with a sudden clarity. One thought and it could end. Sever the brain stem. Stop the heart. Clot the blood.

Michael could see it. He could see the body parts, he could see them throbbing, so clear he could almost touch them. Touch and destroy. Just like he was trained to do.

It would be so _easy_.

He closed his eyes.

He couldn't do it.

He wouldn't do it.

The prick of the syringe was on his neck, pinching just for a moment before it was over. When Bellucci pulled it away, Michael squeezed his eyes shut and locking his jaw, holding back a sob. Whatever his fate would be, he would not kill to find it. Not while the choice was still his to make.

Then, a voice startled him from his efforts: "Stop."

The order was plain and deadly, yielding argument. But still, it was familiar, warm-

"Just _stop_, right now," the voice continued.

The hint of desperation in the tone was a dead giveaway. A voice Michael would never forget, no matter how much he wanted to.

Stefan.

Maybe this was another side effect, another round of hallucinations brought about by Dr. Belluccin's latest experiment. Maybe this was how it ended, a slow insanity, a parade of failures in his mind, taunting him with what he'd had and what he'd thrown away.

"Step away from him or I'll kill you now," Stefan demanded now, and Michael could almost see him, the look on his face. Determined. Focused. The look on his face the night he'd first broken Michael free.

Maybe that was what this was. Not a hallucination: a vivid memory. A flashback of what might have been.

But that didn't explain why Dr. Bellucci obeyed.

In slow movement, the doctor turned, hands still in front of him, syringe still lightly in his grasp. Something of a smile passed over his face. "I had wondered if you would find us before we had a chance to finish our little experiment here."

"The experiment is _over_," Stefan said.

Squinting, Michael looked past the doctor toward the door and he realized why Bellucci was participating in his memory. Because it wasn't a memory.

In the memory, Stefan had a ski cap on. And the look of determination always faded into a hopeful surprise, like a child on Christmas morning who realized he'd gotten everything he'd ever wanted.

But Stefan still had his gun up, pointed, body so rigid it was practically shaking.

Which meant-

It couldn't-

Could it?

The idea that Stefan had come for him, the notion that Stefan had risked everything to save Michael _again_, that Stefan still wanted him back despite what he'd done-

It was unfathomable. It was impossible, it was-

The thought was cut off but a sudden burst of blinding pain, starting in his head and exploding through every synapse of his body. His vision went white, his nerves tingling and his voice caught painfully in his throat as he tried to manage the intensity of the pain.

"It's too late," Dr. Bellucci's voice was still clear, the amusement not hidden. "I'm afraid our specimen is already undergoing the last measures."

"I don't care," Stefan seethed. "Step away."

"He's my project, I'm afraid," Bellucci said. "Always has been. Jericho was so attached to his little John, but Michael was always my gamble. I'm here to figure out what went wrong with him."

"There's nothing wrong with him," snapped Stefan.

"I beg to differ," Dr. Bellucci said. "I know my own work better than you."

"He's more my brother than he'll ever be _yours_."

The words were strong, resounding and clear. The earnestness of them called to Michael even in his pain, pulling him back from the encompassing white until he was looking at Stefan again.

Stefan still stood, his gun out and poised. Ready to fire. Ready to do anything to get Michael free.

He meant was he said. Delusion or lie or truth, Stefan meant what he said.

The paradox hurt his head, made him want to cry. In all, he didn't know what to do, not that there was anything he was capable of at the moment.

Dr. Bellucci cocked his head, almost in pity. "DNA does not lie, my boy. I'm afraid it's not a choice."

It wasn't a choice. Michael was who he was created to be. Simple. No emotions could change that. Lies could only guise it. DNA would tell, and Michael proved himself a killer when it counted.

Stefan's face contorted, though. "Screw DNA," he said sharply. "It's _my_ choice until the day I die."

They were words Michael had wanted to hear, the ones that had echoed in his mind, the taunting of a lost dream he had woken from. To be loved, to belong, to _be_.

Even if it was real, it was a tug of war he had no part of. Still an object to be claimed. Worth only what people would pay for him. Strapped to a table, Michael still wished he could die. Deny Dr. Bellucci the scientific curiosity he sought to satisfy. Spare Stefan from making another mistake with him.

Save the world from genetic engineering gone wrong.

He closed his eyes. The pain in his body was building, burning down into his very cells. He could almost see it in his mind's eye, the double helix spinning out of control. It was ripping him apart from the inside out, his very physical makeup being his greatest downfall.

His greatest downfall, his only salvation. He could see it now, the answer that had eluded him. The escape he wanted was there, in the power of his own mind. Because he could see it now, the synapses of his brain, the ribbed pulsing of his heart. He could kill anything with a mere thought, including himself.

Stop the heart. Destroy the brain. He could think it, and it would happen. Michael's curse was also his salvation.

"You cannot stop progress, son," Dr. Bellucci was saying somewhere, but his voice was distant.

Michael zeroed in on his blood cells, watching as they flowed through his lungs, and into his heart. He watched as they passed through his veins, making their way to his brain.

"The hell I can't," Stefan replied.

But Michael was almost there now, in his brain, the cerebral cortex, the frontal lobe. Burst a vessel, make it end, make it-

His concentration was shattered by the sound of a gunshot ripping through the room.

Startled, Michael blinked blindly, gasping for air as he came back to awareness.

Dr. Bellucci was on the floor, white lab coat stained with thick and mottled red. His eyes were open, mouth gaping, medical tools splayed at his sides.

Dead.

Then Stefan. His face worriedly above him. "Misha?" he asked.

The nickname sounded distant, but still familiar.

Stefan was reaching for him, hands going to his face. "Misha."

Michael flinched and Stefan paused, but only for a moment before his hand made contact, warm and callused on the plains of his cheek.

Terror spread over him. He was a killer, he could kill Stefan without even trying, without even meaning to-

But Stefan didn't die. Stefan didn't even jump back in pain. Instead, the hand smoothed his hair back, lacing fingers through the dirty strands.

The relief was so strong that Michael choked on it, shaking his head.

"Hey," Stefan said, shushing him, his hand not leaving Michael's head. "Just take it easy, okay. He's dead now. He's gone. You're safe."

Words he'd longed to hear, spoken with a love Michael had almost forgotten.

But he didn't understand, it didn't make sense.

The questions were surging in his mind, one after another, too fast to even process them.

Carefully, Stefan's hands went to the bindings, undoing them one after another in fast, easy movements. Each one slipped off but Michael didn't know how to move his limbs anymore. Didn't know how to do anything.

Stefan didn't seem to mind. He worked with a steady mantra of reassurances, his hands steady as he lifted Michael up, propping his heavy torso against Stefan's shoulder, one arm wrapped securely around his shoulders. "I've got you," Stefan murmured into his hair. "I've got you."

It was a dream, a beautiful dream come true. The love Michael had forfeited, the family he had rejected. Lies or not, it was still there, and Michael was too weak to refuse it now, even though he should.

It made him want to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. Nothing came except three words of total disbelief: "You came back."

Stefan paused in his ministrations, looking at Michael critically. "Of course I came back," he said.

Michael swallowed dryly. "But...I'm not...your...brother."

Stefan's face twisted in pain for a moment, but he shook his head. "We can talk about it later," he said. He maneuvered Michael to the edge of the gurney. "Right now we've got to get you out of here. Do you think you can walk?"

They'd talk about it later. Michael wasn't sure what that meant and could hardly understand how it was possible. How Stefan would come back for a mutant who had tried to kill him when they weren't even family.

Stefan wasn't asking what had happened. He didn't demand to know why Michael had used his powers. He wasn't afraid to touch Michael.

He just wanted to know if he could _walk_.

Stefan's illogical traits had been both a source of comfort and confusion for the entire year Michael had known him, and for all that Michael had gone through in the last few days, that sense of familiarity was as close to home as Michael thought he might ever get.

He had not denied Dr. Bellucci. He would not deny Stefan.

Nodding tightly, Michael tried to move his legs. They responded numbly, but the effect was there.

"Good," Stefan said, easing him to his feet. "Because we've got to book it - _now_."

The urgency was veiled in patience, but Michael heard it all the same. He focused on his legs and willed the numbness away, taking a tentative step.

Stefan lingered by his side, his hand never leaving Michael. It was a comfort he craved, and he accepted out of his own weaknesses. But it was not one he deserved, not one his heightened genetic makeup warranted.

He wanted to understand, wanted to know what would push someone to pursue the person who had hurt them and let them down-

But there was no logic. This was another failed test. Another reason why Michael was expendable. He couldn't put the pieces together, he couldn't cut the ties even when they weren't his to bind.

Michael could still end it. The thought lurked in the back of his mind even as Stefan led him one foot in front of another toward the door.

"You know," Stefan said easily, his breathing only somewhat strained. "We really need to stop meeting this way."

The words almost made Michael laugh, his eyes burning with tears that wouldn't come. This didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

But there they were. Michael leaning heavily on Stefan, Stefan staggered but not bowed under the weight. Walking together toward a future Michael could not clearly see.

Maybe later when his physical strength returned, he would have the emotional fortitude to do the right thing.

For now, it was all Michael could do to stay upright.

Stefan opened the door, holding it open as Michael limped through. His body felt funny - disconnected and surreal. The incision sites were partially healed, but sore, and Michael could feel the lack of food and drink creating a fog in his mind.

But it was something more, something building up inside of him, almost so strong that Michael wanted to scream at the intensity.

The changes. The genetic transformation. Michael had almost forgotten in the melee that Dr. Bellucci had had time to start them.

They were taking effect now - strong and powerful - and he could feel them pulsing through every cell of his body.

It wasn't quite pain, but it was such a powerful feeling that it nearly doubled him, taking him to his knees, breath catching in his throat.

Stefan dropped with him, though, hands bracing Michael as he fell, a curse slipping from his lips.

"Come on," Stefan cajoled. "We've got ourselves a getaway planned and you've got dibs on shotgun in the van."

Michael tried to shake his head, to protest. Stefan didn't know. How could Stefan know? If Michael was a monster before, he was an aberration now, and there was nothing to be done for it.

He was half in the hallway now, tile floor beneath his bare knees. It was still happening to him, a ripping apart at the seams. Dr. Bellucci had wanted to see what made him tick, and Michael was getting the view up close and personal.

The air was alive around him, and he could practically feel it as entered him, passing through his lungs. Not just the freshness of the corridor, but every particle, filtering through the alveoli, oxygenating blood.

Stefan's grip tightened, and Michael felt that too. The hairs on his arm standing up with anxiety, the way his heart skipped a beat every time Michael faltered.

Michael could control it, if he wanted to. He could control it all. Not just biological matter, but all matter. Even space and time, it could be molded to his will.

It was almost beyond him, this power. It was almost too much - it threatened to swallow him whole. Michael's consciousness ebbed, then waned, and he felt light.

But he didn't fall.

He couldn't fall.

Not with Stefan's grip unyielding.

Michael blinked, trying to focus his eyes. The world was beyond the third dimension now, the planes of reality visible to him. It was disorienting and it was all he could do to focus on Stefan's face at all.

"Misha," he said, a strained smile on his lips. "You're starting to scare me."

Michael's mouth hung open, but couldn't make himself talk. But as the darkness pulled him under, he could only think that it was about time that Stefan was scared.

-o-

Stefan had mentally prepared himself for the possibility that Michael might not be in the best condition when they found him. It had seemed like a logical possibility and it was the worst Stefan would allow himself to consider, even though he knew that the Institute had a habit of terminating the children when they weren't up to par.

Still, taking the time to nab Michael like they had and to hammer out an exchange with the CIA, Stefan had held out hope they wanted alive him and mostly in one piece.

He'd been right about the alive part, but as he held Michael in his arms in the doorway of the lab, it became clear to him that the one piece aspect was a little less certain.

When he'd first broken into the lab, he hadn't spent much time considering anything than the fact that Michael was strapped to a gurney and, more importantly, he was alive.

Beyond that, there was a son of bitch trying to hurt him, and until he took care of that problem, there was nothing else he could do.

Killing Bellucci may have been overkill. But Stefan didn't have time to regret it - hell, he couldn't regret it, even if he wanted to. Bellucci had set them up the first time they met the man, lied through his teeth and brought Jericho to them. And this time, he'd snatched Michael when the kid was at his worst and, from the looks of things, had done nothing but torture him since he got him back.

In the name of science, maybe, but that didn't make it any less heinous.

Michael was heavy in his arm, and under the bright glare of artificial lights, Stefan could see now just how bad the damage was. He was barely dressed - nothing but a modern day loin cloth - but his skin was still colorfully decorated with scars. Mostly healed, of course, thanks to Michael's DNA, but they were still visible marks on the skin, telling a tale of torture that Stefan couldn't even imagine, not even with his mob background. Torture in the mob was all about getting information. Break a few fingers, shoot a few kneecaps, get someone to roll over and spill their guts. Beyond that, they preferred bullets to the brain rather than pain for the sake of pain.

So cuts like that - countless, deliberate slices - it made Stefan wish he could go back inside and plug the bastard again, just on principle alone.

Still, Michael was a chimera and a damned impressive one at that. The scars indicated that Michael had been through something horrible, but they didn't explain the unconsciousness.

Glancing down the hall, Stefan weighed his options. They were on a tight schedule here, and he needed to make sure that Saul and Ava were okay with their parts. Taking the control center wasn't a task to scoff at, and trying to make sure there wasn't a revolt from the kids they were trying to save hardly seemed fair for a girl like Ava.

Eyes on Michael again, Stefan knew the decision was already made. He had hoped Michael could walk out of here on his own two feet, but it didn't matter. Stefan was getting the kid out of here one way or another, even if he had to carry him himself.

Gently, Stefan lowered Michael to the floor, maneuvering himself around for a better position. Then he reached for Michael's arms, pulling him back into a sitting position and hoisting him as best he could over his shoulder.

It was awkward work, and Michael's body was heavy and warm, dangled limp over his shoulders and back. Standing was a whole new trick, and Stefan went slow to compensate for his altered center of gravity.

Once on his feet, he adjusted his grip, one arm secure around Michael's thigh and the other pulling his gun back out of his pants.

Wetting his lips, Stefan began to move, quickly and cautiously. He was pretty sure they'd down most of the guards and other staff and stowed them neatly in the storage closets, but he couldn't be too safe in this situation. One wrong move, and it wasn't just his life at stake, it was Michael's.

One wrong move.

Or just one wrong turn.

Stefan didn't even see it coming.

One minute he was running, Michael secure on his back, and the next he was falling, face first on the floor Michael sprawled in front of him.

His vision was slow and his ears were ringing - the impact with the floor had jarred him pretty hard. Spitting blood, he tried to breathe, only to find his nose clogged with a coppery scent.

He wasn't sure how bad it was, but it wasn't his primary concern. With effort, he got on all fours, crawling dazedly forward and reaching for Michael.

Stefan had just managed to pull Michael onto his back, where he lay limp but breathing, when he saw her.

The small pre-teen figure from the surveillance video.

The little moppet from his first infiltration of the Institute.

Wendy.

She had clearly aged significantly in the year since he'd seen her last, but there was still something childlike in her appearance. Her face was blossoming, though, the set of her eyes and the rosy color in her cheeks giving her a more mature look.

But the look in her eyes. Appraising and cold. It was the same, only this time touched with a newfound freedom that made Stefan go completely numb.

She didn't move, barely even twitched. She just stood there, arms straight at her side, head tilted, bicolored eyes staring at Stefan with the detachment he'd only seen in thoroughly bred killers. Only she lacked the rage most of his ex-coworkers in the mob had harbored. For Wendy, the rush of the kill was the thing - the _only_ thing - and she eyed Stefan like some might a piece of steak before cutting in and eating it piece by piece.

His first instinct was to run. Not the bravest choice in the world, but sometimes bravery was nothing more than an early grave. Stefan was willing to die, but he preferred not to - and besides, if he went down, Michael would be on his own and vulnerable. And seeing as Stefan didn't want to off a little girl, running sounded as good as anything.

It was a sound plan, but as he scrambled to get to his feet, they promptly stopped working. No warning, nothing. One second he was pushing off the ground, the next he was flailing. He fell again, face first, barely getting his hands beneath him to prevent another hit to the head. His legs might as well have just been gone - they were useless to him, deadweights beneath his pelvis.

Shocked, Stefan reached out, grasping his thighs. There was no sensation. There was just _nothing_.

She'd crippled him.

In horror, he looked back at her, the realization of just how powerful she was sinking in with slow clarity. A single thought and she'd downed him. Another wayward thought and she'd taken his ability to run. He had no way of knowing it if was permanent, if she'd killed all the cells in his legs or just cut off the nerves that sent messages to his legs, but it was damn effective.

Worse, Stefan had a feeling it was only the tip of the iceberg. Wendy had been powerful the first time he met her, and she was clearly far beyond that now.

Running was not an option.

What _was _an option?

Begging. Offering her anything she wanted. She was insane, unhinged, but there still had be something of a girl in there. He'd reached Michael. Maybe he could reach Wendy.

"Wendy," he said, almost pleadingly. "We can help you. Please-"

Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally and Stefan felt his voice cut off - _gone_. Gaping like a fish, he tried to produce sound, but nothing - not even a croak came out.

Stefan prided himself on not panicking even when things were looking bad, but there wasn't much he could do but panic. Wendy was disabling him, one body part at a time. Why she didn't just kill him - it was hard to say. She clearly had the ability, but Stefan could only reason that it would end the fun far too quickly for her sadistic tastes. After all, how often did she get free rein to torture a mere human at will?

With a desperate look at Michael, Stefan knew he had to use that to his advantage. He had to find some way to overcome her. She was a little girl - he couldn't be taken out by a little girl. Not when she was the only thing standing between him and getting Michael to safety. He wasn't a killer if he could help it, especially not of children, and as sick as the thought made him, if it was Michael or Wendy, he knew who he'd pick.

Assuming of course, he had a choice.

Stefan had to believe he had a choice. No legs, no voice, but he sure as hell had a choice, if he could just figure it out-

His gun. Hell, any gun. He had enough of them strapped to him. The one he'd been carrying was gone - lost when he fell. But if he could get another one out before she caught him, he might have a chance.

The one in his jacket pocket was the best bet, but the question was how to do it fast enough. He was pumped up on adrenaline, but his legs were gone and his voice was dead. This girl could stop him with nothing more than a whim, and he was a quick draw, but not that quick. He needed a distraction - something, _anything_.

Any movement was preempted, though, when his arms went numb, dead weights that dropped out from under him, sending him back to the tile with no way to stop himself.

So much for getting the gun.

It took work to lever himself to his side, flinging his body weight for all he was worth, and even when he got there, it wasn't like it did him much good. He could see that Michael was still lying there - untouched but unmoving - but there was no way of helping him, of even finding out what was wrong.

But hey, at least he had a front row seat for Wendy as she moved in for the kill.

Assuming that was her intention, anyway.

She still stood there. Just _stood_ there, something inquisitive in her eyes as she studied him with a unsettling stare. Chest heaving, he will himself to move - but it was useless. His limbs didn't respond, didn't even twitch, just fell heavily at his sides.

He was completely vulnerable - himself and Michael. No defenses. No way to even plead for mercy. Unless he managed to bludgeon her into submission with his log-like limbs, he was screwed.

Royally screwed. The injustice of it stuck painfully in his throat. All the hard work they'd put into this, how close he'd gotten. To find Michael but not save him, to get in but not get out - it didn't seem _right_.

He wasn't one for despair. It wasn't something that he'd allowed himself. Despair hadn't kept him looking for Lukas, even when everyone else stopped. Despair hadn't helped him survive when working for Konstantin. Despair hadn't kept him fighting even as Jericho kept closing in again and again.

Stefan couldn't give up. Even if his limbs didn't work, he couldn't give up.

Maybe if he could stall, keep her distracted long enough, Saul would come looking, catch her off guard.

Distracted. How did he keep someone distracted when he could do anything but lay there?

In desperation, he heaved himself forward, flopping to the ground, but moving ahead. He flopped again, as graceless as a fish out of water. He wasn't sure what he was doing, but he was doing _something_, because he couldn't do _nothing_.

For a second, it seemed to be working. Wendy hadn't moved and she hadn't decided to do anything drastic like cut off the circulation to his balls of sever his spinal column just yet. Maybe this would work, maybe-

Maybe not.

A pain shot through his gut. That was the simple way of putting it, but it didn't do it justice. Hell, it wasn't even in the right _ballpark_. There was pain, and there was _pain_.

Nothing like he'd ever felt before. Worse than having his thigh bone explode. Worse than Michael's accidental attack in the apartment. Worse than all of it combined.

Sharp, unyielding, eclipsing his entire body and his very awareness. Almost like something was ripping inside of him, tearing his stomach from the inside of his abdomen and trying to squeeze it through his intestines.

And all thoughts of planning went out the window. Hell, all thoughts of dignity and sanity went out the window, right there with composure and confidence and control.

Which left him with - just about nothing.

Gasping, Stefan curled in on himself, the only movement he had left, trying to breathe. Trying to think. Trying to do _anything_.

For all the good it did him.

Because there was no reprieve; the pain ratcheted up a notch, and his lungs hardened, almost as if they were incapable of moving the oxygen. Which, come to think of it, they just might have been.

It was a toss up now, which was worse: being eviscerated from the inside out or suffocating to death. The proverbial rock and a hard place, agony and torture.

He couldn't see Wendy anymore. He couldn't see much of anything. A glimpse of Michael's skinny leg in front of him, a personal view of the bleached and sanitized tile, stained with blood from his still seeping nose. But he didn't need to see Wendy, not to feel her as she twisted his insides again and again and-

The pain tore at his consciousness, stripping his awareness away in chunks at a time, and he felt himself fading - fast and furious - against his will. It would be gone - soon. Too soon. It was slipping through his fingers and all he had to do was close his limp fingers around it to save something, anything-

He had to fight. He was a sucker for impossible fights. Damn near quixotic. He'd found Michael - twice - he could do this. He _would_ hold on.

Teeth clenched, he squeezed his eyes shut, rally whatever strength he could muster. He focused on the pain, holding onto it as it anchored him to his body, to life_. _He needed to stay awake. Stay awake for Michael.

Michael.

Straining, he forced his eyes open, looking for the kid. Michael was still prone on the ground, but seemingly unaffected by Wendy's attack. It took effort, but he craned his neck enough to see Michael's face, still slack in unconsciousness, skin pale, cheeks flushed, breathing fast and shallow.

There was hope in that. Maybe Wendy would spare him. They had been like siblings once; that had to carry some weight, assuming anything would.

Then the pain spiked again, and his body seized with it, desperate for oxygen it wasn't getting. His chest felt like it might explode - literally - and he was practically convulsing with the vain effort to survive.

It was almost over. His senses were flaring in a last ditch attempt to fight the effect of Wendy's clutches, and Stefan suddenly understood the term _death throes _in all of its visual morbidity.

Blackness settled over him, but his awareness clung stubbornly on. If he was going to die, he was going to know it, right up to the end. He just wished there was a way to let Michael know how sorry he was - for everything.

For not telling him the truth, for not making it better. For not saving him, for not being there when they did get out of here. For not being the brother he needed, for not being good enough-

Then - air.

Sudden and clear, it was in his lungs before he'd realized he'd taken a breath. It took him a minute to process it, and his body throbbed, a residual, lingering, phantom ache, even when the pain was gone.

The pain was gone. He could _breathe_.

His eyes were open.

Open and staring at a pathetic puddle of blood on the floor. His blood.

Why was he alive?

Somewhere, he heard the sound of voices. There was movement near his head. Then, something clear:

"No, you can't hurt him," Michael's voice said, defiant and strong. "I won't let you hurt him."

The certainty of his brother's voice buoyed him, and clung to it, looking beyond the floor and the blood to scene in front of him. There was sensation in his limbs again, hazy but there, though Stefan did not have the strength to try moving them just yet.

Michael was standing now. Too skinny but straight, ribs highlighted with every heaving breath he took. His fists were clenched at his sides and there was something unfamiliar and rigid in his stance.

It was good to see him up, but it was wrong to see him like that. Not broken, but barely held together. Not shattered, but practically falling apart. Michael did not confront people like that. Michael did not make threats.

Whatever Bellucci had done to Michael, its impact was more than physical - it was psychological as well.

Beyond Michael, Wendy cocked her head to the other side.

Michael did not flinch. "I will hurt you."

The small smile on her face said it all: _I'd like to see you try._

There was a day when Michael would have probably caved to that. When he would have taken a page out of Stefan's book and hauled ass.

That day was not today.

Michael stood his ground, lowered his head and the battle began.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Just a few chapters to go :) Thank you!

CHAPTER TWELVE

Some people believed that life was defined by a beating heart. This covered many things, from a newly conceived fetus to an injured possum in the road. In this light, life was expansive, encompassing, both more valuable and less.

Others looked at sentience: the ability to reason, to be aware. This allowed people to eat the meat of animals, to appreciate zoos, to pull the plug on a loved one in an irreversible coma.

Michael knew the arguments for both sides, and more. He knew the biological factors, the psychological rationale, all of it.

But that wasn't life to Michael. His heart had been beating during his entire existence, he had been capable of rational thought since he was very young, but _existence_ wasn't life.

No, Michael's life began the night Stefan broke into the Institute and gave him a choice: to come or to stay.

Michael made the first choice of his life that mattered and came to life.

The following year had been a wonderful series of choices, both simple and profound. What to eat for breakfast, what pair of pants to wear in the morning. Whether or not to go to school, to flirt with girls, to accept a family.

Choices defined him. Choices made him _real_.

That was what Jericho had denied him, what Bellucci had taken from him. And it was what he was fighting for now.

The choice to be real - the choice to save a life - the choice to be the brother Stefan had wanted him to be all along, no matter what.

Even if it meant killing.

Michael's mental acuity was sharper than ever, his vision almost looking beyond the third dimension. He could see Wendy so clearly, her head cocked to one side, arms at her side, looking almost passive in her stance.

But he could see beyond that. Beyond the little girl she should have been and into the heart of who she'd been warped into being. Her mind was an expanding canvas, filled with hate and power. It was written in her DNA, embedded into her psyche with every breath she took. The science that created her had been perfect, flawless, and the guise of a little girl was all that separated her from all the sociopaths in history.

Jack the Ripper. Jeffrey Dahmer. Charles Manson.

They had nothing on Wendy.

He could see the power she wielded, how it lurked inside of her, ebbing and flowing with every beat of her heart. She controlled it effortlessly, using it and holding it back on a whim, like the child she should have been.

But he could see more than that, he could see the coldness of her heart, the detachment of her reasoning.

He could see how much she enjoyed hurting Stefan. The way the blood flushed her cheeks ever so slightly, the endorphins firing in her brain. Even now, she was thinking who to kill first: Stefan or Michael.

All logic deduced something very plainly to Michael: to spare her life would be to forfeit Stefan's. Someone would die here, and it was up to Michael to decide who. That was a choice no person should have to make, but it was his to make.

Choices defined him.

The choice to kill would show him for the killer he was.

The choice to let Wendy live would show him as the stranger he was genetically to Stefan.

The choice would define him. A killer and a brother. A normal person and a stranger.

Wendy's decision was made. Her eyes set on Stefan and her intent was his heart this time, to burst it in his chest, watch him drown in blood-

The choice defined him.

And Michael chose Stefan. The loss of innocence was a fallacy anyway; he'd lost it long ago. But the loss of Stefan was one that he would not survive. At least, not one he wanted to.

His warnings were given. Her intentions were clear. Michael's choice was made.

Steeling himself, Michael bared down, grabbing the power inside of him and pulling it up before directing it at the girl. It was an experimental effort, just to see how it worked.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, Wendy turned her eyes back to him, a small look of annoyance on her face.

Briefly, Michael glanced at Stefan, still bleeding and limp on the floor. He was in pain and immobilized but the frantic rise, fall of his chest was all Michael needed for now.

Suddenly, Wendy's vague annoyance made sense.

Nothing had happened. Wendy had tried to kill Stefan and nothing had happened. Michael's powers had thwarted her own.

It was a pleasing revelation, one that resounded almost giddily in the pit of his stomach, but as Wendy's eyes narrowed, he came to realize that the joy was probably premature.

Her sights were set on him now, her pixie face set with a monstrous scowl. She did not speak, but he could read her intentions. To hurt him. Squeeze one of his kidneys until it exploded. Not immediately fatal, but incapacitating, even for him.

Self-preservation flared and he rallied. Something tingled through him, but it passed.

Wendy's face registered surprise. She was surely used to instant success. Michael's ability to fend her off was unexpected - for both of them.

Her surprise was momentary, and as her eyes darkened and her small shoulders squared, he realized with acute clarity that Wendy had only been playing before. She hadn't even been trying.

The burst of power that came next was a sincere effort, strong enough to double him over quickly, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

She was working at his intestines, squeezing and releasing in even increments. Nothing permanent - yet - but perforation was likely and then he would bleed internally before help could even think of arriving.

Michael went to a knee, panting. This was beyond him. This amount of power, this amount of control - it was not something he understood - nothing he'd ever wanted to understand.

The pain spiked again and Michael felt himself weakening.

His impending failure fueled something inside of him. If he went down, Stefan would be helpless. Michael was not helpless. It was his job to protect. It was the only use of this curse that was worthwhile. He could not let Wendy win. He could not let Wendy be free to exercise this power on anyone else.

The resolve buoyed him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling within himself. Beyond the pain, he could feel her power working and he focused on the cells and willed them to stop - not just stop - but to lash out - if there was a power to destroy, it could destroy, but someone else-

There was a cry, young and surprised, and Michael looked up to see Wendy go to her knees.

Blinking, Michael realized the pain was gone. Spitting blood, he got to his feet. "We do not have to destroy each other," he said as strongly as we could. She was a victim, a child without a chance. No one had given her one, not like Stefan had given one to him. He pulled back his power. "Please."

Wendy's writhing stopped and she looked up at him through the fringe of her hair. There was blood on her lips and fire in her eyes.

This time, Michael barely had time to brace himself before the attack was launched. The force of her power threw him from his feet, propelling him into a wall with force that made his vision fade. Awareness did not leave him, and he became aware of the growing pressure in his head, building and building and-

Gritting his teeth, he got to his feet, taking a lurching step forward as he hurled her infliction back at her.

This time, she fought back, a new attack coming at him, trying to make all the blood in his body turn to sludge, but Michael doubled back, giving back what she threw at him with equal force.

He could feel her frustration mounting, her pain growing. She was almost crying now, a child throwing a tantrum. But this wasn't a broken toy or a puppy in a window - this was life and death and sometimes monsters wore the faces of children, even when it wasn't their fault.

Wendy's next attack was at his heart, the place where life began. Where life ended. She sought to still its beat, to stop its rhythm, to squelch Michael out once and for all.

Maybe he deserved it.

But the choice was still his.

And it hadn't changed.

The power was everywhere now, growing in him, pulsing through him with a vibrancy he couldn't begin to understand. Whatever Bellucci had done to him, it had changed him irrevocably. The power was a real entity, almost impossible to ignore, even harder to deny.

The power was a curse, he knew. And power had almost taken Stefan's life, almost made Michael lose his would-be brother forever.

Now it would save him.

Sometimes the end did justify the means.

It came out of him with astonishing force, so intense that the recoil sent him to the floor hard, head colliding with the tile. The pressure on his heart ceased and he heard the sound of Wendy's heartbeat go suddenly still.

He blinked, realizing his eyes were open. The hallway was quiet now; the only sound he could hear was Stefan's ragged breathing.

Stefan was going to be okay, he could feel it. He could feel his organs beginning to respond, the blood flowing to his brain.

Blinking again, Michael looked at the ceiling. It was the same tile as the examination room.

Then he saw the flaw, same as before. A small nick, hard to distinguish from the other intentional holes.

Not accidental. A defect. A mistake not of the installation, but the manufacturing. It was impossible to say if the design was problematic, or just the implementation.

Michael might never know.

But as long as Stefan was okay, he wasn't sure it really mattered.

-o-

It was over.

It was _really _over.

Wendy's bicolored eyes were open, but sightless, her body stiff and contorted, mouth open in an endless look of shock.

It was horrific - she was so _young_. Younger than Michael. She had never experienced a real life, she'd never had anyone to love her. She'd been taught to kill and to hurt, and she'd had no one to save her. Even after everything she'd done, Stefan almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

But her body wasn't the only one on the floor.

Michael.

Heart lodged in his throat, Stefan ran on heavy feet to his brother's side. Unlike Wendy, whose features were frozen in death, Michael was totally limp, sprawled haphazardly on his side. On his knees next to Michael's prone form, Stefan rolled the younger boy onto his back gently, cringing when he saw the blood.

Crimson stained Michael's upper lip, leaking from his nose and trailing down his chin. There was another streak of red winding from Michael's ear, wet and hot on Stefan's hand as he tapped Michael's face to revive him.

Michael's head simply lolled, lifeless and loose.

"Michael," he called out, voice almost catching in his throat. "_Michael_."

There was no response. Not even a flicker.

Desperation threatened to choke him and Stefan felt the tendrils of denial begin to take root. It was a comfortable fallback, he realized distantly. When things got to tough, blocking them out entirely was easier. It was how he had managed not to cope with Lukas' death. It was how he had managed to survive living without Lukas all the years after.

But Michael wasn't dead. He wasn't. Michael had won. They both had. Stefan had found Michael, defied the odds _again_, and gotten him out. Michael had faced down Wendy, faced his own doubts and fears and saved them both.

Saved them all. Not just Saul and Ava, but the other children.

More than that, Michael had _survived_.

That counted. It counted for a lot.

They couldn't blow it now.

Hand gripping Michael's shoulder, Stefan was almost begging now. "Please," he said. "Wake up."

The blood was still coming, a few drops on the sterile tile floor. Michael's chest rose and fell, but there were no other signs of life.

"Come on," he said, voice low and rough like gravel. He hoisted the younger boy high, catching his head as it threatened to flop backward. "Misha."

Stefan was close to tears, almost blinded by his emotions. But then he saw it.

A movement.

Nothing more than a twitch.

"That's it," Stefan coaxed. "You can do it, little brother."

Then again - a ripple through Michael's entire body, twitching from his feet to his head.

Stefan's mind struggled to keep up with it, to make sense of what he was seeing.

But then Michael twitched again, jerking harder this time, body pushing hard against Stefan's tender grip.It was followed by another, just as violent, proceeded by another until Stefan could no longer avoid what it was.

Not a sign of recovery.

A seizure.

Stefan was well prepared for many things. He planned for as many contingencies as he could think of. But the thought of losing Michael - the thought of getting so close to him and then having him slip away - it was simply incomprehensible. Impossible. Not something he could deal with. Not now, not _ever_.

This was what it had been like with Lukas, he realized. The overwhelming disbelief, the gnawing, desperate fear, so visceral that it threatened to swallow him whole. It was happening again - he was going to lose everything. Only this time, it was in his hands and he still couldn't hold onto it.

Stupid. All for a stupid lie. A well-intentioned lie.

He'd take it back. He would. He'd do anything for Michael.

Anything.

As suddenly as it began, the shaking stopped, and Michael felt deathly still in his grasp. The young face was colorless, lips tinted blue, starkly contrasting from the bright smears of blood on his face and in his hair.

He looked dead. He could be dead.

Stefan's mind struggled to process it, to make sense of it, but he couldn't. He just _couldn't_.

There would be no denial this time. No, this time Stefan would stay with Michael, no matter what. Lukas had died in a stranger's arms. Michael would not have the same fate. If he died, Stefan would be there with him and he would die, too.

There was a noise behind him and a strangled gasp. Stefan didn't even bother to get in a defensive position. He couldn't move, not with Michael so carefully cradled in his grasp.

"Stefan," Saul's voice hissed. "Is he-?"

Stefan looked up blankly, almost surprised by the pained look on his friend's face. Saul was looking at Michael, face scrunched up, a sorrowful expression on his features.

Saul's eyes met his, full of a sympathy Stefan did not want. "Stefan," he said, softer this time. Gently.

Stefan recoiled, shaking his head and pulling Michael closer. "He's not dead," he ground out, because it was true. He would know if Michael were dead. Dead people didn't bleed. Dead people didn't have seizures. "We need to get him out of here."

Saul looked like he wanted to protest, but there was no counterargument to offer. Stefan was right, of course.

Resolved to that, Saul nodded, bending over as if to help.

But Stefan pulled away, his body stiffening, wrapped possessively around Michael's still form. "I've got him," he said roughly, the _don't touch him_ clear in his tone.

Saul backed off, a bit hesitant, but he did not question the boundaries. "Ava's with the other kids, got them locked in the containment room. They'll be safe until the authorities arrive. Her story's already off to press."

Stefan nodded woodenly, barely caring about the rest of the plan. Instead, he worked carefully to find his feet, lifting Michael's weight into his arms.

Saul lingered, looking like he wanted to help, but kept his distance, even as Stefan faltered for a moment under the strain. "The car's ready to go," he said. "We just have to get him there."

Stefan sucked in a hard breath, looking at Michael once again. The trail of blood had drifted down his cheek now, his blonde hair matted with it. There was no more twitching, and the movement in his chest was nearly indiscernible.

But it was there.

Michael was a boy full of miracles, and Stefan was counting on at least one more. For both their sakes.

-o-

Normally, Stefan was all about control. After all, in his old line of work, the only way to make sure he lived to see tomorrow was to do the job himself. No loose ends, no room for error. He had colleagues but he never had friends because there was always a vague, uneasy feeling that any of them could turn at any time.

But that wasn't a life Stefan lived anymore. Even if his life was just as dangerous and he had way more to lose, that type of control didn't exist without a cost.

So while Stefan would have liked to be driving the getaway car, there was no way he was going to leave Michael alone in the back seat. Priorities. They changed everything.

And more than that, Stefan _didn't _live the isolationist lifestyle he had before. His life wasn't a lonely condo and long hours on the job. His life was Michael, and everything that entailed. Settling down, making connections, establishing bonds. It started with Michael, but it went beyond that. He was on speaking terms with his father again, and Saul was an acceptable part of his life, in times of peace and in times of trial.

In short, if he could trust Saul with the truth about Michael, he could sure as hell trust him to drive the getaway car.

Even so, that didn't mean he necessarily approved of the other man's driving style.

It was all Stefan could do to keep Michael's prone form on the seat as Saul took a corner at breakneck speed.

Stefan cursed, glaring at the back of the man's perfectly maintained hair. "Easy," he said harshly over the sound of squealing tires. "The idea is to make a discreet getaway, not attract every cop in the area."

Saul glanced in the rearview mirror, his plucked eyebrows knitted together. "That place is going to be ground zero here soon," he said. His eyes flicked to the road for a second before meeting Stefan's eyes again. "And the kid doesn't look so good."

Stefan had no response to that, and his gripped tightened on his brother. Michael hadn't moved since they'd gotten him out of the Institute, his dead weight malleable and awkward, even as he was hoisted and maneuvered into the back seat. Stefan hadn't let go of him yet - and didn't have plans to any time soon.

But keeping Michael close wasn't making him better, no matter how much Stefan wanted it to. In the moonlight, Michael's complexion was pallid, the smears of blood drying into garish smudges on his fair skin.

Unconsciously, Stefan let his hand linger on Michael's chest, feeling for the unsteady, weak thrum of Michael's heart, so clear to him even over the uneven road that Saul was navigating with rough driving. He could still feel the after-effects of Wendy's creative treatments throughout his body, but he couldn't focus on it - not with Michael in his current state.

With his other hand, Stefan swept Michael's bangs off his head, running his fingers through the blood-stiff hair behind his ear. Michael didn't flinch, not even with the intimate contact.

Maybe driving faster wasn't such a bad idea.

Saul took another corner, almost tipping the car onto two wheels and Stefan had to use one hand to brace himself against the door. Michael's inert form jostled, one leg slipping off the seat and Stefan grappled to keep him close.

Saul swore. "Sorry, sorry," he called from the front. "We're almost to the city now. We'll slow it down there and once we get back into the open countryside, we should be good to go."

Stefan could think of a dozen sarcastic comebacks, but none of them mattered. Nothing mattered except Michael.

"Any change back there?" Saul asked, his worry evident.

There hadn't been any change. The bleeding had stopped, which was something, Stefan supposed, but not nearly enough. Michael hadn't responded to voices, to touch, to pleading: he was just out of it. Still and unmoving, and it was all Stefan could do to keep himself under control.

But before he could find an acceptable answer for Saul, Michael answered for him.

Not a nice quip or even a plaintive response. But a twitch.

Stefan felt the tremor rip through him and his stomach bottomed out. He didn't even have a second before another tremor followed, then another and another until Michael's entire body was stiff and thrashing, head smacking hard against Stefan's shoulder, legs kicking the front seat.

Saul swore again from the front, his voice tinged with panic.

And all thought and logic went out the window. Any planning, any sense of being careful, of practicing stealth - it didn't mean anything. Nothing meant anything without Michael.

"Faster," Stefan ground out, and he could have been yelling and he could have been whispering, he didn't know, couldn't know. His eyes were locked on Michael, transfixed on the contorted features, almost locked in pain as the body in his grip continued to buck against him. But his words were for Saul, and he counted on his friend to understand, even when Stefan didn't have time to explain. "_Faster_."

Whether it was the sound of Stefan's voice or the uncontrolled thrashing from Michael, Saul got the hint, pressing his foot to the pedal until the car surged ahead, almost at an uncontrollable pitch, as they made their way to safety.

-o-

Running solved a lot of problems. It really did. In all, Stefan was a fan of running. Running kept them from being picked up by any backup the Institute my bring into play. Running kept them out of the pictures and the headlines when all the crap hit the fan.

But running didn't solve every problem, and that fact had never been more abundantly clear to Stefan than now.

Because there he was, in the safe house, locked up tight, no one the wiser that anything had gone down last night. There was no one on their tail, no one tracking them - no one even _looking _for them as far as Stefan knew.

And it didn't mean jack crap, not with Michael lying on the bed. The kid was still again, that deathly stillness that made Stefan keep his fingers on the pulse point in Michael's wrist, just to be sure. The seizure in the car had lasted longer this time, almost two agonizing minutes and Michael had been almost blue when it was over.

Stefan didn't remember the rest of the ride back to the house. He didn't even really remember getting Michael out of the car or the awkward walk back up, Michael heavy in his arms. He just remembered lying Michael down on his bed, the one in the room Stefan had made up especially for his brother as a welcome home. The apartment back in the city had been cramped and they'd had to share a room. But the villa Stefan had arranged as their new digs under one of Anatoly's aliases had ample space to spread out. He had thought Michael would like that, even giving the kid the best room, looking out onto the jungle.

Stefan had taken extra care to stock it well, instructing Ava to unpack Michael's things herself: move Michael's horrible selection of clothes into the closet, put up the eclectic assortment of decorations and books the kid had amassed in the last year. Stefan had figured it'd be the only time they'd see the room clean until they moved out. Zilla even had a first class view of the greenery, in a cage with fresh food, water, and plenty of wood chips to pee in. The little rat was probably the most comfortable one in the house.

But Michael hadn't even opened his eyes to see it.

Hell, Michael hadn't even _moved_.

That was hard to accept. To do everything right - to overthrow the Institute, get it exposed to the public, have its leaders arrested, get Michael _free _- and victory still wasn't theirs. To have Michael back, but not have him there at all.

Stefan didn't even know how to deal with that. He was used to searching, he was used to working for things - but he'd _done_ that and won and...now what?

Waiting.

Sitting by Michael's bedside and _waiting_. Not without hope, though. Even if Michael hadn't moved, even if his skin looked dull and translucent, even if there was as much of a flicker of life as he breathed in and out, in and out - there was hope. There had to be. Michael was a chimera. That counted for a lot.

The rest was all taken care of. Ava's article ran, front page news, picked up by syndicates around the world. By the morning, press from all over was flying in to get a glimpse of the compound and the Bolivian government has seized control in a desperate attempt to keep the situation under wraps.

For what good that did them. By the time the CIA showed up to try to clean up the mess, since the Institute was registered by American citizens, the news was out. Genetic testing. Children being kept in confinement. The government had had no choice but to sever its silent ties of protection and clean up the mess like any other illicit facility.

All staff were being held. The children were reportedly all doing fine, though one was killed in the crossfire. A little girl. They were calling it a tragedy.

In short, the Institute was gone. Its science shown for the evil that it was. It was hard to say what would happen to the other kids, but Stefan had done all he could for them. In some ways, he'd sacrificed more than he could afford, but there was no way to take it back now.

He couldn't take any of it back. For all he'd accomplished in the last day, it still wasn't enough. It really didn't mean anything. Not without Michael.

It still came back to that - it would _always _come back to that. Stefan was glad they'd done the right thing, but getting Michael out safely had always been his primary concern.

And Michael was out, all right. But safe...well, that was still the million dollar question.

They'd put him on the bed, pulled off the covers and draped a sheet over him. Stefan had thought about putting him in a little more clothes, but eschewed it quickly. Michael would be awake soon; he could do it himself.

If Saul disagreed, he wisely said nothing. What would he say, anyway? Reason and logic - they'd never really been Stefan's thing, and after what they'd all just been through, Saul would have no grounds to disagree.

That had been hours ago. The morning came, sun rising in the sky, and in the daylight, Michael looked no different. There was no change. Nothing. Stefan was still in his fatigues, the sweat dried in his armpits, drops of blood from his nose staining the front. His boots were hot and heavy on his feet, and not even the breeze from the jungle outside could do much to cool him.

He could shower, he supposed, but he didn't want to be gone when Michael woke up. And it would be _when_, not an if. Stefan was sure of that.

It was a resolution, if only a desperate one. Stefan forged it by Michael's bedside, solidified it while holding his brother's hand in his own. They'd get through this. Somehow, they'd get through this together.

Shifting in his seat, Stefan worked for a better position. He'd tried pacing for awhile, but all that did was keep Zilla awake, beady little eyes locked on Stefan's every move.

So much for pacing. Sitting was harder work than one would think, but Stefan was nothing if not dogged in his pursuits. And besides, after Wendy's freaky-ass mental crippling, the pins and needles feeling of sitting in one spot too long was vaguely reassuring.

He thought briefly if he should talk to the kid, keep up some kind of conversation. Michael was big on useless chatter, more and more the longer he was away from the Institute. Maybe it would make the kid feel him, maybe it would encourage him to wake up and tell Stefan how wrong he was about anything and everything.

But Stefan didn't know what to say. Looking at Michael, he could still see the betrayal on his face when he learned the truth. Stefan owed him much more than apology, and bedside vigils were too cliche for that kind of thing.

And all the other stuff - what had happened in the new Institute, what Bellucci had done to him. What Michael had done to Wendy to save both their asses. Too much had passed - lies, betrayal, kidnapping, _torture _- and Stefan didn't even know where to begin.

They'd talk about it when Michael woke up - whenever that could be. It wasn't unlike Michael to be contrary just for the hell of it. And he did like to sleep, tried and true teenager that he was.

Well, if Michael wanted to sleep, then Stefan would let him sleep. Stefan would let him do anything he wanted, and he'd always be right there for the kid.

No matter what.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: The end is very near :) Thanks!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Twenty-four hours.

It was the magic number. Stefan didn't know why, but Michael had said it himself. Almost every injury he'd ever endured had healed itself within a day. Sometimes less, from what Stefan had seen. Even when he'd been shot through at Anatoly's beach house, Michael had gone from near death to up on his feet in no more than two days.

Truthfully, Stefan had counted on that. As much as Michael had scared him the night before, he'd truly believed that in twenty-four hours, Michael would wake up, bitch about the food, and start looking for a cute girl to hit on.

But twenty-four hours came and went, and Michael didn't move. Saul had set up an IV and pushed a bag of saline, just to be sure. Michael's skin pinked up, but there was no other change.

Even if Michael didn't fully recover, Stefan had expected some kind of improvement-a step in the right direction. If Michael were going to heal, he'd be doing it already.

Stefan didn't think he could make sense of what that mean lack meant.

Saul came and went, bringing food and water, even bringing a bowl of soup for Michael. When it got cold by Michael's bedside, he took it away, sitting and disappearing in equal turns. Sometimes Stefan could hear Saul's voice in the other rooms, talking on his phone, but Stefan couldn't bring himself to care.

Stefan couldn't bring himself to do anything except sit and watch. Sit and wait. Sit and _hope_.

It was getting harder, though. In his short life, Stefan had had some hard jobs before, but nothing compared to this. He was drifting at sea, the shore getting farther and farther from view. Stefan had to wonder if there'd come a time he wouldn't see it at all, how long he'd keep searching the horizon in vain for something that just wasn't there.

Someone knocked at the door. With begrudging curiosity, Stefan looked wearily over his shoulder.

Ava was standing in the doorway, smiling shyly. She was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, not her normal more professional garb, and she chewed her bottom lip while she waited for acknowledgment.

The best Stefan could afford her was a small shrug before he turned back toward Michael.

Ava, in true Ava style, seemed to take that as a _come in_. "I got here as fast as I could," she said, her voice soft, as though Michael might be only sleeping. "My boss had a hell of a time drilling me for more, desperate to know where I got my leads."

Stefan didn't reply, but looked at her. Anonymity had always been part of the deal, but Ava was overzealous at times, so he'd worried how she'd stick to it.

"I told him I got lucky in bar," she said with a casual shrug. "He was so happy about our exclusivity that he let it slide. Still, I was fielding questions for almost a day straight."

She was talking, and part of Stefan knew it would be polite to really listen and respond to her. After all, Ava had helped him-a lot. She'd bet her career on his farfetched story and then gone and thrown her life into the pot to make it happen. She did it without knowing him, with barely knowing Michael.

So yeah, he owed her one or two or ten. And he'd make it up to her-when Michael was awake.

Ava seemed to sense his mood because she fell silent for a moment. "Saul says there's been no change," she ventured softly.

Stefan had to swallow hard.

There was another pause. "He didn't tell me how it happened."

"He doesn't know," Stefan said roughly.

Ava nodded at that. "But you do?"

Stefan didn't know all the details, but he knew enough. Michael had done it to him again, reversed the tables and risked his life for Stefan's. Stefan would have been dead by Wendy's deranged powers, but Michael had intervened. How-that was mostly speculation. It was clear Michael's powers had stepped up a notch, but to take out Wendy? That was Godzilla v. King Kong and somehow Michael had pulled it out.

Mostly. Either Wendy had done a number on him or the use of the powers themselves had overtaxed Michael's body. Either way, the result was the same. One limp kid brother and Stefan sitting there wondering what the hell had gone wrong.

"Stefan?" Ava prompted.

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "He saved my life," he said tiredly. "The girl from the surveillance-Wendy-she was going to take me out. I was out of it on the floor and then the next thing I knew, I was as good as new and Michael was down. He had some kind of seizure and then that was it. Here we are."

His recap barely did it justice. The tired explanation could only hint at the pain of it all. It was probable that Ava could read between the lines, that she'd understand the fear and the disappointment, the failure and the desperation. The hows and whys didn't matter. Only Michael mattered and he was laid out on a bed, unmoving, and it just _wasn't okay_.

Ava's hand was gentle on his shoulder. "You don't have to do this alone," she said.

Stefan closed his eyes, stiffening under her touch. Her comfort was real, viable, his for the taking, but he couldn't. He wouldn't let himself. He'd been too weak, too lax-he hadn't been there for Michael when he needed him before, and he would not let that happen again.

Ever.

Even if that meant sitting here for the rest of his life. He wasn't leaving Michael. He couldn't prove they were brothers with DNA or memories of younger years. All he had to show it with was his dedication. Being there. Never leaving.

It had to be enough.

It _had_ to be.

Swallowing, he looked up at Ava. He'd been here before. The cusp of a relationship, but what he needed to give wasn't something he was willing to give up just yet. Not with Michael's life in the balance. Not with his brother's very belief in himself still not defined.

Part of him wanted to ask her to wait, but Stefan didn't know what good it would do. He liked her, but she wasn't family.

Face taut with a grimace, Stefan shook his head, looking back to his brother. "Yeah, I think I do," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

He heard her open her mouth to protest, but she said nothing. There was nothing she could say, and they both knew it. It was the same thing that had driven Natalie away all those years ago. While a lot had changed, the simple truth hadn't: Stefan wasn't complete without his brother. Lukas, Michael-Stefan had invested too much in both of them to just _let go_. No one, not a pretty college girl or a savvy international reporter, could change that. Even if they did have pretty smiles. Because when it came to priorities, they would never win.

They deserved better. As much as he'd loved Natalie, he was glad she'd left him. As much as he thought there was something there with Ava, he figured it was about time for her to leave, too.

Stefan felt her presence linger for a while, but he did not look at her again. When she finally went away, Stefan closed his eyes, almost in relief.

Scooting his chair closer, he picked up Michael's flaccid hand, squeezing it. "Come back to me, Misha," he said, looking at the pale face once more. "Come back to me."

-o-

Stefan had braced himself for a slower recovery. Even super-powered chimeras had to have their limits, he'd told himself.

But he'd have been a liar if he said that when forty-eight hours came and went, he wasn't discouraged.

More than discouraged. Almost heartbroken. Because there was no sign of improvement, no sign of life at all. Michael remained just as he had since they'd gotten him to the villa: lifeless.

Lifeless. How the hell could Michael be lifeless? It didn't even make sense, not at all. As limp and pale as he'd been back on the beach the night he was shot. Almost as lifeless as Lukas the night he died.

Stefan had seen death before. He'd seen it up close and personal and been forever changed by it. But Michael wasn't dead-still, he wasn't alive-so where was he?

Right here. Michael was _right here_.

That was the hard part in all of this. Or one of them. In the ten years that he'd believed that Lukas was missing, Stefan had been haunted by his brother's memory, driven by the tangible quest of _finding _him.

But this time, he'd found Michael. Found him, rescued him, brought him home, and Michael was still gone.

Stefan could give up everything he had, spend more money then he should ever make, sacrifice relationships and years and _everything _looking for his brother. But he had no way of finding someone who was missing inside their own head. He could break into top-secret facilities, raid well armed institutes, kill doctors and commit all sorts of crimes in the name of justice to get his brother free. But there was no way of freeing Michael from whatever it was that held him in unconsciousness.

Stefan had spent most of his life feeling helpless, but he understood the word on a whole new level.

Because he was doing all the right things. He'd rescued Michael, killed the bastard who did this to him. He'd gotten Michael out, got the Institute outed-it was all going according to plan. He was even playing the diligent big brother, not leaving Michael's side-not even for a friggin' _second_-and nothing. No effect.

Just nothing.

Just Michael, unconscious and unmoving. Stefan would almost be grateful for a seizure at this point.

The memory of Michael's lanky body shaking turned his stomach.

Almost, but not quite.

But he'd take a know-it-all remark, a theoretical posturing. A demand for sugar, a request for a shopping trip-something, _anything_.

Stefan let his eyes drift around the room again. They'd only been here two days, but Stefan had the landscape memorized. The posters on the wall, the assortment of collectibles on the dresser, the view of trees and mountains out the window.

And Michael. The small tilt to his nose, just slightly to the left. The way his eyebrows were still brown, even with the bleached blonde hair. The way he breathed-in, out, in, out-with the small pause before the next inhale.

That was how he measured time, now, in the rise and fall of Michael's chest. In the hours since they got back. It was still a question of _when_ in Stefan's mind because he couldn't handle the idea of _if_.

He'd cry if he thought it'd make any difference. He'd weep, clutch Michael's hand, give him any bedside confession the kid wanted to hear. Hell, he'd share sex stories, stories of the mafia, if he thought it'd make a difference.

It didn't, though.

Slumped in his chair, Stefan looked at his hand. He bit absently at a hangnail on his thumb, when a knock came at the door.

With only mild interest, Stefan glanced over his shoulder. When Anatoly set up a place for them to stay, it was secure. Stefan had pulled out all the stops to make sure they had a quiet place to recuperate. He'd planned on using the time to prove to Michael they were still brothers, but a secluded area for Michael to recovery physically was also important.

No matter how they spent their time, the point was they were going to spend it alone. The movers had been paid to forget and outside of him and Michael, only Ava and Saul were around.

It was Saul at the door, which Stefan probably would have guessed. Ava had been keeping her distance since the night before. Whether she was scared or guilty, Stefan didn't know, and it didn't matter. Maybe she just saw the futility of trying to talk to him when he was so preoccupied with Michael.

Saul would know it was futile, too. But Saul also knew him well enough to know he had to try. Turned out that Saul had a damn bleeding heart, and even if it was futile, it wasn't entirely in vain.

Quietly, Saul came in, stopping short of the chair. He was silent for a moment. Then, he swallowed. "Any change?"

Stefan adjusted himself in his seat. "Still sleeping," he answered gruffly, in an approximation of the truth. While his brain was far too aware of the darker possibilities of Michael's conditions, he would not say them out loud.

Saul nodded, and there was another pregnant pause.

Stefan began to get the vague notion that he wasn't going to like where this conversation was headed.

"Stefan-" Saul began, but Stefan didn't let him continue.

Shaking his head, Stefan cut him off: "No."

"You didn't even let me finish," Saul objected.

Stefan looked at him, really seeing him for the first time. "Two days you've let me sit in here, I figure I'm due for some kind of twisted pep talk or something. Maybe a call to rally," Stefan said, shrugging. "But whatever the hell it is, it can wait until the kid's awake and bitchin'."

"Stefan, I know he's got a lot going in his favor, but-"

Stefan's stare was icy. "But _nothing_. Drop it, Saul," he said, his voice almost a growl. It was true, Michael made Stefan a sap nine times out of ten, but that didn't change who Stefan was around everyone else. Stefan could be a mean son of a bitch when he wanted to be, and going on two days sitting by Michael's bedside, he was about as nice as a rabid dog. "I mean it."

To Saul's credit, he didn't back down. The other man held his ground firmly, but his expression was pleading, and the look in his eyes showed nothing but concern. He had been pushed beyond the point of professionalism and this was personal now. Saul was invested in Michael, not as much as Stefan was, but still. Their little ragtag team meant something now, and it was a strange thing to consider that he wasn't the only one looking out for Michael anymore.

Saul hadn't left. Stefan wasn't paying him for this, and Saul was still there. Hell, it wasn't just that Saul hadn't left: he'd hovered, he'd run errands, he'd taken care of things that Stefan had been too busy to even think about. He'd forced Stefan to eat and use the bathroom, sitting with Michael when such reprieves were forced. And now here he was, and it was becoming clear to Stefan that he wasn't the only one at the end of his rope.

"Something's wrong with Michael. I know you don't want to talk about it, and I understand that," Saul said, his words weighty and evocative. "But let me tell you from experience, if something happens to the kid because you didn't let someone help him when you should have, you'll never forgive yourself. It's a mistake you'll never let go of. I know."

Stefan's mind wandered, reminded of Saul's story of his sister. A five year old, dying of meningitis, her parents too oblivious or too ignorant to get her help. It didn't matter which and it didn't matter what their intentions were. Rosemary had still died because of their lack of action, and Saul had been forced to watch it happen. A slow and painful deterioration that didn't have a happy ending.

He'd never asked Saul if he preferred the closure to the lingering question that Stefan had so long harbored with Lukas. It wasn't a fair question to ask, but Saul's point was a fair one to make.

Even with his heightened healing abilities, there was still no guarantee that any injury was recoverable in Michael's case. More importantly, Stefan didn't even know what the injury was. It was possible, though he did not want to admit it, that if Michael had blown out his powers, it could have resulted in some kind of damage the required real medical treatment.

Or worse, it might even be possible that it had caused irreparable damage. Michael might never wake up.

Any way it went, if Michael didn't wake up soon, they'd have to start taking drastic measures to keep him alive. Before Stefan could do that, though, he had to know how much of Michael was in there. Stefan didn't want to lose his brother, but he also didn't want to prolong any kind of suffering or to leave Michael as a vegetable. That would be cruel, to reduce Michael to that.

In short, he had to know.

Ignorance was bliss for most of the poor schmucks out there in the world, but after ten years of denial, Stefan was done with it.

He sighed, feeling the slow sense of inevitable resignation come over him. Michael didn't move, showed no signs of awareness. His face was vacant, body devoid of life.

Stefan was out of options, and for Michael-well, he'd do anything for Michael.

Even risking exposure to some kind of authority would be worth it if it meant helping him out somehow.

All in all, Saul was right, and it wasn't that Stefan was a big enough man to admit it, but that he didn't see any other choice.

Resolved, Stefan looked away from Michael, meeting Saul's pleading gaze. Wetting his lips, Stefan nodded. "Okay," he said. "But all the tests are done here, and I only pay in cash."

Saul grinned, relieved. "I'm sure we can come up with something."

-o-

This time, Saul came up with someone better than Alejandro. Dr. Recarey was middle aged and professional, and came fully equipped with medical equipment. Stefan didn't know where Saul found him, but the capabilities and quiet nature of the doctor worked well for Stefan's purposes.

Still, even with that, Stefan wasn't about to leave the room during the examination. He hovered with all the subtly of a mother hen and he might not have clucked, but he came pretty damn close as the older man gently poked and prodded his brother.

Saul gave them privacy, retreating to one of the other rooms in the villa-it didn't much matter. The place was big enough for a family of six, so it easily accommodated them all. All Stefan cared about was that he and Michael had their privacy.

Ava had reappeared when the doctor arrived, her cordial Spanish doing most of the hard translations. Because of that, Stefan allowed her to linger in the back of the room while the examination took place, but Stefan did not budge from Michael's side, except when he was asked to leave for some kind of scan.

Michael didn't stir through the ministrations, but that didn't make Stefan exactly feel a lot better. The doctor mumbled under his breath, words Stefan couldn't quite catch even if he had been able to muster up something resembling a translation. It was hard to gauge the doctor, whose face seemed naturally pinched and serious, and his expression didn't flicker once, not even as he rubbed a fist into Michael's sternum with no tangible results.

In some ways, Stefan was a little impressed at how thorough the man was. But he'd be more impressed when he got the diagnosis he was looking for, something that said Michael would be okay.

But when the doctor finished, putting his supplies back in his bag and straightening, Stefan suddenly got the sense that this would not be good news.

"Pues," the doctor said, as a matter of fact. "No hay mas que puedo hacer aqui."

Stefan shook his head. That wasn't a diagnosis, that wasn't anything at all. He consented ot have a doctor for _answers_, and he damn well expected them. "Como esta?"

The doctor raised his eyebrows, launching into something of an explanation.

At least, that was the best Stefan could figure based on the few words he could make out from the fast string of Spanish. Most of the time, Stefan could actually understand more Spanish than he could speak, but most of his conversational skills had been picked up at the bar. And since the doctor wasn't ordering a beer and a basket of tortilla chips, he was a bit over his head as the doctor launched his assessment.

"Despacio, mas despacio," Stefan requested, with barely constrained frustration. The days by Michael's side had taken a toll on him-more than he cared to admit to. Inaction made him grumpy by default, and feeling helpless only made things worse. And considering the fact that Michael was still unconscious on the bed, and Stefan was grasping at straws to maintain what remained of his self-control.

Ava must have seen it, because she stepped forward, a placating smile on her face as she edged in next to him. "Esta bien," she said easily.

"It's not okay," Stefan snapped, glaring at her. "Michael's still on the damn bed and the so-called doctor just spent an hour to tell me there's nothing more he can do."

The doctor's reply was sharp and pointed, and even if Stefan couldn't quite make out the words, it was clear the man didn't enjoy Stefan questioning his skills.

Which was all well and fine, because Stefan didn't enjoy having idiots in his presence when he needed real help. If he'd wanted pipe dreams and vague promises, he would have kept up his silent vigil, let medical professionals rot in hell.

The lack of sleep, the absence of food, and the continued fact that Michael hadn't moved a damned muscle were making his frustration turn to anger, and Stefan was not opposed to beating the crap out of a doctor. The other man may have made an oath to do no harm, but Stefan lived by a different code, especially where Michael was concerned.

Ava shook her head, turning decidedly toward Stefan. "Quiet," she hissed purposefully. Then, with a measured smile, she turned back to the doctor. "Doctor, por favor. Otra vez explicame."

The doctor seemed to sigh. He pursed his lips, holding up the readout again. The string of words from his mouth were unintelligible, fast paced and garbled, and he gestured periodically to the read out, glancing a few times at Michael.

Ava nodded along. When the monologue stopped, Ava's face froze. She swallowed hard. "Gracias," she murmured. "Espera en la sala, por favor para discutir pago."

With a curt bob of his head, the doctor left, frowning at Stefan as he went.

Stefan watched him go blankly, not waiting for the door to shut before he turned to Ava. "What did he say?"

Ava seemed to let out a slow breath, and she turned away.

"Ava," Stefan said again. He glanced worriedly at Michael before reaching out to touch her arm. "What did he say?"

When Ava turned, her eyes were wet. She swallowed, her look almost pained. "Stefan, I'm so sorry," she said.

Stefan shook his head, not able to make sense of it. "Sorry? I don't understand. What did the doctor say?"

She nearly broken into a sob, but she reigned it in. "Physically, he's fine," she said slowly. "The doctor can't find any kind of external trauma to his body."

Stefan already knew that. But she wasn't telling him the whole story yet.

With a shuddering breath, Ava looked at him sadly, regret thick in her words. "But the scans of his brain, the monitoring of his brainwaves-they show no activity. Even though he doesn't know why, it's pretty clear that Michael is brain dead."

-o-

Stefan had been no stranger to emotional trauma in his life. His brother's death when he was fourteen had nearly ripped him in two, rendering him emotionally damaged enough that he created something of a false reality to help him cope.

Looking back, Stefan could see how it happened. He understood how the shock was too pervasive, too comprehensive. How it had infected his very essence and left him too vulnerable to even know how to start rebuilding.

He hadn't known how to live without Lukas. He could feel it again now, a loss so encompassing that it threatened to overtake him whole. Surviving Lukas had been discovering Michael. Losing Michael just wasn't an option.

Ava's interpretation stood echoed in his head, a diagnosis Stefan probably should have seen coming. After all, what kind of injury could keep Michael from recovering in his typically speedy fashion? Only the kind of injury that people just didn't recover from.

Stefan's response was simple: he didn't. He didn't respond. He didn't react. He let the news settle all around him but didn't let it permeate his reality. It was there, the knowledge threatening to overtake him, but until Stefan accepted it, it couldn't do him any harm.

Dr. Recarey must have left, but Ava and Saul seemed to be taking turns, loitering at the entrance of Michael's bedroom. Once Ava offered food. Saul suggested a trip to the bathroom.

Stefan did neither.

He stayed steadfast, seated by Michael's side. It was all he had to offer, and the most he could think to give. In his life, presence was often fleeting. His mother had died, Lukas had disappeared, and the one person he should have been able to count on was so consumed with his own demons that Stefan had still been alone. Sometimes that had been the hardest part. Not that he'd lost his mother, not that Lukas was just _gone_, but that his father hadn't taken the time to help him through it.

Stefan's life was full of that, strong presences with fleeting impacts. Uncles who loved him only as far as his father's power extended. Babysitters who were bodyguards in barely dressed-down disguises. That isolation had made his connection to Lukas all the more real, even when it was nothing but memory and denial.

His own distance had driven Natalie away, had kept him from making friends. What Stefan failed to invest in others, they returned with closing doors, and more than stories and coincidence, Stefan knew the thing that had convinced Michael of an audacious lie was that Stefan had never left.

Much had changed since then, and Stefan feared that maybe it was too much. Too many hurts. Too many lies. The kind of betrayal that not even Bolivia could fix.

If Michael wanted to leave, Stefan would have to understand. But not like this. Not a slow fade, a dimming of life right before his eyes. Stefan would never understand this and he would never accept it.

And if Michael had a problem with that, then he'd just have to wake up and tell Stefan to his face.

Stefan was counting on that. He was counting on _Michael_. Michael had defied his very DNA, so he could overcome this. Test results were damning, but Michael was evidence of the impossible. A would-be killer turned into a normal teenager. A kid who had made a cold, warped heart beat with new life. Michael's presence had brought Stefan back to life, and it was time to return the favor. Even in the face of the impossible.

Hell, _especially _in the face of the impossible.

-o-

Another day came and went. Ava had contacted Dr. Recarey again and obtained an array of IV nutrients. Saul helped set them up, Ava offering quiet instructions about which IV bag was for what. They were quiet and efficient, restrained and respectful as they worked with Michael. The doctor had even been convinced to leave some of the other equipment, so they could check for brain activity periodically if they felt there was some kind of change.

It was Ava who recommended that they start rolling Michael every few hours, but it was Stefan who rotated Michael's body, carefully shifting pillows to better support his brother's recumbent form. Saul was the one who brought fresh food, and Ava was the one who dutifully checked Michael's vitals, but it was Stefan who did the dirty work, keeping watch over Michael, changing his cath bag, and marking the long hours by Michael's side with the unchanging rise and fall of his skinny chest.

When another morning came, Stefan was almost afraid to take account of it. Because four days might not have been a long time for most people, but for Michael, Stefan understood it for the eternity it was. He didn't know how long they could support Michael in this setting, and moving Michael to a more official medical facility was something he'd do if he had to, but Stefan was still holding out hope.

But it was fledgling at best. Michael's face was slack, his limp fingers warm when Stefan held them. The kid was losing weight despite the IV nutrients, and the hollows in his cheeks were becoming pronounced. His urine output was still decent, but Stefan knew logically it was only a matter of time.

Denial, though. Not as deeply rooted as the ten year self-deception after Lukas' death, but he clung fiercely to it nonetheless. Things were not going well, but Stefan refused to accept, even as it became less and less likely that Michael would rebound.

The days were marked by routine, a step-by-step process of taking care of Michael. Saul and Ava came and went, talking to him, walking lightly, but they faded to the background. But that day when Saul brought in a tray for lunch, instead of setting it down and leaving, he lingered.

Ava had a tendency to do that, loitering by Stefan's side or sitting for a period next to Michael's bed. She liked to touch, to feel, even when she didn't know what to say, and Stefan imagined it was meant to be something of a comfort.

Saul's approach was different, though. More reserved and measured. So when he sighed, shaking his head, Stefan was surprised.

"We can't sit here forever," Saul said finally.

Stefan didn't know whether to be angry or surprised. Instead, he kept himself still, eyes not leaving Michael. "Hell of a thing to say, Scozinsky. Especially from you."

Saul sighed again. "How much longer are you going to keep this up?"

"As long as it takes," was Stefan's reflexive answer.

Saul's voice softened. "I mean before we have to get him to more help."

Stefan couldn't help it: he flinched.

The subject Stefan had been studiously denying was the one that Saul apparently had no intention of leaving alone. It was a stark contrast to Anatoly's approach during Stefan's teen years, and it occurred to Stefan only distantly that if he'd had a friend like Saul back then, none of this might have happened. But then, Michael would have no one.

"Stefan," Saul said, in a tone gentler than Stefan would have thought possible. "I'm just thinking about the kid."

At that, Stefan did look at the other man. Saul was frayed around the edges, his clothes plain and his hair quickly brushed. If Stefan thought he was the only one taking this badly, he would have thought wrong.

He swallowed hard, looking at Michael again. "Another day," he said roughly.

Saul nodded. "And then where are we taking him?"

Stefan sighed heavily, sitting back in his chair. It was a question he had an answer for, even if he hadn't wanted to admit it. He was used to making contingency plans. His entire life seemed to be one plan B after the next. "I call my father," he said finally. "Anatoly has contacts that put yours to shame. Get Michael a fake ID, put him on a medical chopper to the closest private facility we can trust."

If Saul had questions about how Anatoly could pull that kind of stuff off, he was smart enough not to go there. This conversation was hard enough as it was, and Stefan had to be grateful again to Saul's subtle discretion. "What do you need me to do to get ready for it?" he prodded. "Pack some bags, maybe? Contact the movers again?"

They were important details on some level, Stefan knew. Wherever they ended up, Michael would want his stuff, and Stefan would be loathe to make the kid part with any of it, as horrific as some of it was. But the idea of leaving, the idea of having to get Michael more help-it just didn't parse. Stefan didn't _want_ it to parse

He shook his head tightly, eyes latching onto Michael again. His brother looked unchanged, still beneath the sheet, rolled on his side with a pillow stuffed carefully between his knees. Curled on his side like that, it almost looked like the kid was sleeping.

Stefan fought against his watering eyes. He shook his head. "No," he managed to say.

Saul seemed to want to disagree, but he knew better. He hesitated a moment more. "You should get some rest."

"All I'm doing is resting," Stefan countered.

"You're no good to Michael like this."

Stefan's eyes flashed with an anger he couldn't control. "I'm no good to Michael _resting_ either." The obvious reality was, he wasn't good to Michael in any way, shape, or form. But he had to be here for Michael, whether Michael knew it or not. He'd believed in _them_ long enough once to make Michael believe it, too. Part of him wanted to believe it was possible to do it again by sheer force of will.

Saul's next argument was softer than before. "He wouldn't want you to do this."

Stefan's chest ached, and he thought of Michael jumping in front of Jericho's bullet. Michael taking Wendy down. For Stefan.

"I owe him," Stefan ground out.

Saul swore, then scratched at the back of his next. "You're a stubborn son of a bitch, you know that, Korsak?"

Stefan looked at Saul again, saw the circles under his eyes and the way he stood with a slouch. "Takes one to know one."

Saul's lips pulled into a rueful smile. "Blood or not, you two certainly have that in common. Obstinate, no matter what. Michael just usually pulls it off with less sulking and swearing."

Stefan laughed hoarsely, a choked, tight sound. "He's a crap-ass actor."

"And what makes you think you're so much better?" Saul asked blithely.

Stefan's smile fell, his expression pinching. "I'm not trying to act here."

Saul nodded. "Yeah, I know," he said. "Just remember that's not fooling Michael any more than you're fooling me."

It was true. But even if Saul understood what was going on, that didn't change anything. Michael was still in the bed and it was still Stefan's fault. But it wasn't just guilt that kept him there; it was duty. It was _love_. Hell, it was what brothers did.

"You don't have to do this to yourself, you know," Saul said plainly. "I mean it when I say you're not doing him any good. You saw the scans; he doesn't know where you are. You're just torturing yourself."

Stefan just grunted, almost wishing it really were that simple. "Yeah?"

Saul nodded. "Yeah."

Stefan breathed out, craning his neck. He was sore from sitting there so long, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Working saliva into his throat, he looked at his friend. "So when your sister was in the hospital. When she was dying of meningitis. Did you have to be there?"

Stefan knew the words were harsh, but Saul's expression didn't waver. He just looked at his hands, laughing a little. He looked up, smiling. "I didn't do her any good."

Stefan shook his head. "That's not what I asked."

With a sigh, Saul scrubbed a hand through his hair. "There's a difference between what we're obligated to do and what we just _have_ to do," he said. "For family, it's always been a different question."

Stefan looked at Michael again. Not his flesh and blood, but the most important family he had left. "So you understand," he said.

"Yeah," Saul said in the dimness. "I think I do."

There was a peace in that, a mutual understanding. Stefan had no way of knowing how long Saul would stay around, and he had no expectations on the other man. Saul had done everything he could, and each minute that passed that Saul was still there, proved to Stefan that maybe his family wasn't quite done growing yet.

Even so, Saul understood the limitations. Not that he wasn't welcome, but that there were some things that Stefan needed to do on his own.

Saul's presence retreated, but Stefan didn't even turn to watch him go. There wasn't a point.

There wasn't a point to any of this-it was just one gigantic mess. Senseless. _Wrong_.

Stefan had grappled with the idea of fate and divine providence. He'd wondered to what extent his choices affected the final outcome. Was it always supposed to be like this? Was the past year just a happy delusion, a minor blip of surreal contentment in the long string of misery that defined most people's lives. Maybe Michael was never _his_, and maybe he had to accept that.

But Stefan didn't want to accept it, and looking at Michael, still as he was, he knew the kid didn't want to accept it either. After spending a lifetime being indoctrinated to be one thing, Michael had chosen to defy everything and make his own path. That counted for something-that counted for a lot.

And in this, Michael had taught him something. No, Michael had taught him a lot of somethings, but one salient point stood out above the rest: that life was what you made it. It wasn't about what his DNA said, it wasn't about what medical tests tried to prove. It was about what they could accomplish _together_. It was about the future they created, not a past they didn't share. It wasn't about what they'd suffered, about what they'd lost-it was about who they were becoming.

Family, in its truest sense, in its _best _sense, was no more than that: people putting each other first, never giving up, always holding on.

It was the love Stefan had extended to Lukas, even after his death. The love he would give Michael for just as long.

Stefan wasn't naive. Love couldn't fix everything. But it could fix some things.

It could turn an ex-mob killer into a family man (with vigilante and asocial tendencies). It could turn a genetically engineered assassin into the boy next door (with sarcasm and a sweet tooth galore).

Michael didn't need the lie of family; he just needed the real thing. Not a flesh and blood backstory, but someone who would never leave, not even after most other people would have bailed.

Stefan could still feel Michael's power in his gut, ripping him apart. It should have freaked him out-the kid had probably come within a second of killing him.

But instead, it just broke Stefan's heart. It made him want to save Michael even more. Because he knew it never would have happened if Stefan had just told him the truth.

He could still see the look on Michael's face. Disbelief, shock. His whole world crumbling.

Stefan couldn't overlook that. But he could rebuild it.

He would rebuild it. One brick at a time, no matter how long it took to prove to Michael that he wasn't going anywhere.

With a bitter half smile, Stefan leaned close. His fingers brushed Michael's bleached blonde hair. "You can't get rid of me that easily, you understand?"

There was no twitch, as expected, but as Stefan lowered his fingers again to feel the warmth of his brother's skin, a tingle radiated through him, starting in his fingertips and surging all the way to his toes.

It was a mild shock, enough to rattle him, and he drew his hand away, surprised.

Blinking, Stefan tried to assess if he'd imagined it. He hadn't exactly been sleeping and he was trying to remember the last time he'd been outside Michael's poorly decorated room. A little cabin fever was probably to be expected.

But Stefan narrowed his eyes, looking intently at Michael's face. There was no change there, no sign of anything different.

Still, Stefan swallowed hard, moving to the door. "Saul," he called. "You still there?"

There was a rustling and a grumbling from the next room. "Everything okay?"

Stefan kept his eyes on Michael. "I think so," he called back. "But could you come here?"

There was a soft litany, dotted with some colorful curses, but Stefan ignored it.

Inexplicably, he felt a grin spread across his face, the faintest glimmer of hope buoying his spirits. "And bring the doc's medical equipment if you can."

Because it was time for another test, and even if Michael had proven himself to be not so good at tests, Stefan was thinking this might just be one he passed.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: I'm behind on review replies but wanted to stay on track. One more part to go after this :)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

In Stefan's life, he'd learned the hard way that the best things are the ones worth waiting for - not just in theory, but in cold, hard reality. After all, Stefan had given up ten years in pursuit of a brother he'd lost and even after all the guilt, loss, and sacrifice, he'd found the best thing he hadn't known he needed: Michael.

And those first days on the road with his would-be brother - they'd been fast in some ways, but slow in others. Trying to stay off the radar had kept Stefan perpetually on his feet, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. In so many ways, the time had lapsed like a blink of an eye, but to Stefan, he could still remember every moment.

The joy of finding Michael. The slow process of trying to get him to remember.

Of course, at the time, Stefan had assumed Michael was Lukas. Trying to convince a stranger that they were family was bound to be a difficult task, and Stefan could still feel every disappointment when Michael talked about "_your_ family."

That made it all the more important when Michael accepted it after all. Stefan's hard work paid off. His sacrifices were worthwhile. The slow and painful process ten years in the making was not without its cost but surely had its dividends.

Slow and steady really did win the race. It seemed like that should be a lesson learned for Stefan. But even with the scan showing an increase in brain activity, Stefan was having a hard time waiting.

After all, Michael's health was only one concern in all of this.

It was Stefan's primary objective - he still hadn't left the kid's side, except to take a leak and once to shower. Ava's rudimentary skills at reading and understanding medical devices was proving quite useful, but Stefan still had to take her at her word when she said all signs pointed to Michael regaining consciousness soon.

They'd dodged that bullet, and the relief changed Ava and Saul dramatically. Their conversations were light, buoyant. Sometimes he even heard the muted sounds of laughter from the basement.

Stefan wouldn't begrudge them that - he couldn't. Not with all they'd given to him and Michael. But Stefan couldn't join them - not while Michael was still unconscious. And even then, Stefan knew that his patience might not pay off quite as well as he wanted it to this time.

It was a grand sort of thing to think about - Stefan holding Michael's hand, squeezing it gently as Michael came to awareness. He liked the idea of being the first thing Michael saw - a reassuring reminder of _home_ and _safety_. He wanted to laugh with the kid, hear Michael psychoanalyze something ridiculous. He wanted to joke about fashion and Kermit the Frog and which one of them had the more pathetic sex life (or complete lack thereof).

If that were all he was waiting for, then the whole bedside vigil thing would have been a snap.

But it was more than that. The closer Michael got to consciousness, the more Stefan was faced with the other issues still looming unresolved on the horizon. Questions about what had happened to Michael while under Bellucci's questionable care, discussions about Michael's surge in powers, uncertain contemplation of Wendy's fate, frank confessions about what family was and what family wasn't.

There was no guarantee on any of it. There was no promise that Michael would even want to see Stefan again when he woke up.

And that uncertainty was pretty hard to stomach. It made Stefan restless and fidgety, and he took to pacing across the space, stopping to look at Michael's things to distract him.

It was a nice room. Anatoly had impeccable taste, and even with the cushy exchange rate into dollars, Stefan imagined the place had cost a pretty penny, especially to equip it to guarantee privacy. They could be happy here - if Michael wanted to.

Stefan picked up a box of matchbooks, collected from all the restaurants they'd visited. It was a nice supply, but Michael hadn't used one. They were all still pristine, jumbled in a box.

It could have been a sign that Michael was a closet pyromaniac, but Stefan knew better. It was simply a collection that proved selfhood. Michael's way of making his life concrete.

Jaw rigid, Stefan set the box back down. With the reveal that Stefan wasn't his brother, Michael would need those things more than ever.

All of the stuff, Stefan thought, looking around the room. The posters, the books, the odd assortment of _everything _- they were equal to him now. Stefan was nothing more than one of these, something random picked up by happenstance. Coincidence. Even Zilla had a leg up on Stefan because the little rat had never lied.

Of course, Stefan also hadn't pooped in Michael's hair, but he wasn't sure that would count for much considering the lies he'd told.

Sighing, Stefan crashed back in the chair by Michael's bed. Waiting was a whole lot harder without some semblance of hope. The growing dread in the pit of Stefan's stomach was cold company as the hours wore on.

There was a small knock at the door, and Stefan looked up, almost relieved for the distraction. When he hadn't been certain of Michael's fate, he hadn't much cared for the company. As Michael's recovery looked more certain, Stefan had to admit that he was glad he wasn't facing this alone.

It was Saul, Ava not far behind. Leaned against the door frame, Saul smirked a little. "You're going to get stuck in that seat if you don't get up sometime," he said.

Stefan managed to find a grin. "I'll get out of here when Michael does."

Ava sighed, a small smile playing on her lips as she came in. "Spoken like a true hero."

"Well, Ava, I didn't know you felt that way," Stefan joked.

She snorted, pulling out the chair from Michael's desk and sitting in it. "You think it's a compliment? I told you before this started, there's no such thing as a Jason Bourne. Real heroes are just jackasses who are too stupid to think about themselves."

Saul winced on his behalf. "Good to know that all our time together has made you less blunt," he said.

Stefan just shook his head. "There a reason you two are here?"

"I get paid by the hour," Saul reminded him. "I've got your bill on a tab."

Ava rolled her eyes, holding out a paper. "We thought you might want to read this."

Skeptical, Stefan took the piece. He wasn't much of a reader, and he hadn't exactly been one to keep up with the news, especially while on the run. The news he was interested in wasn't usually printed in papers and books, anyhow.

But the headline caught his attention: _Secret facility discovered; 24 arrested in connection on international charges_.

His heart skipped a beat. He'd been so preoccupied with Michael that he hadn't let himself think on the other loose ends. He knew Bellucci was dead, that the Institute had been raided. But he'd half-feared all along that somehow the government would still clean it up, tuck it away, maybe even let it continue under a new name.

But this article spelled it out otherwise.

There was no official word on how the _facility_, as the reporter referred to it, got its funds, but the money trail implicated a number of high profile investors worldwide. All of the staff, from the lunch ladies to the researchers, had been detained and brought up on various charges, and every doctor and nurse named in the facility had been suspended from practicing medicine.

The data collected from the computer system indicated a staggering amount of research, dating back over twenty years. A number of other geneticists were being investigated in connection to the unethical research, and several hospitals and medical facilities were being implicated in corroborating with the study. Evidence of illegal genetic manipulation, money laundering, misappropriate of medical funds, improper possession of human tissue - the list went on and on and on.

The children were being cited as victims, currently being cared for in a temporary residence in the U.S. Embassy.

When he was done reading, Stefan just stared.

They'd done it.

They'd actually _done _it.

"You'll notice that's the _USA Today_," Ava pointed out, a trace of pride in her voice. "I can also show you copies of _The Daily Telegraph_ and the _Sydney Morning Herald_. And a whole bunch in languages you can't read."

Stefan lifted his eyes, gaping a little. Then he laughed breathlessly.

"Speechless, huh?" Saul asked, grinning widely. He shook his head. "Never thought I'd see the day."

Ava's eyes were warm and she leaned in, reaching out and squeezing Stefan's shoulder. "I did," she said.

Stefan swallowed with effort, his eyes darting to Michael. As much as this meant to him, it would mean more to Michael.

"Hey," Ava said.

Stefan turned his gaze back to her.

She was looking at him intently now. "This is good news," she reminded him. "Just like Michael waking up. You need to let yourself believe that you did it."

"We did it," Stefan said hoarsely.

Saul made a noise in the back of his throat. "Smirnoff, the kid's only going to care about one person in all of this, and it sure isn't me."

"Or me," Ava added.

Stefan let his gaze linger on Michael once more. Maybe it was the fact that he'd been sitting in one spot for days. Maybe it was the emotional overload that the Institute was _gone_, maybe it was just that Saul and Ava had seen him through everything - but he felt his control weakening. His stoicism fading. "What if he never forgives me?" he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

"You risked your life for his, what more could he want?" Saul asked.

A brother. A family. But Stefan's voice couldn't work anymore.

"You got him this far," Ava said, her voice gentle. "I think it's time to trust him to do a little of it now."

Stefan trusted Michael to recover. Stefan trusted in Michael's uncanny resiliency, his ability to adapt and rebound-

He just didn't know if he could trust him to forgive. Not with a betrayal that large, a mistake that encompassing.

Looking at Ava and Saul again, his smile was watering. "Thank you," he said. "For everything."

Saul stood upright, rolling his shoulders. "Don't thank me until you see my bill."

Ava laughed, standing. "And just being here is all the thanks I need."

With that, they left, and Stefan tried to let their encouragement take hold within him. Just a little hope - just the inkling of a possibility - it was more than he'd had before and all he had to tide him over as he waited for Michael to wake.

-o-

It was anticlimactic when it finally happened.

Stefan had been sitting for hours (_days_), running on nothing but sparse food and even sparser sleep. The days seemed exactly like the nights, with sunlight barely registering in his exhausted mind.

But Michael was waking up. That alone was motivation to stay with it. Michael was waking up, and Stefan clung so tirelessly to that fact that it kept him going even when his body wanted to forfeit the fight altogether.

As dedicated as he was to Michael's cause, he almost didn't believe it when Michael finally did wake up. There had been a slight shifting first, little twitches and varied moans. But when hours passed and they showed no sign of intensifying, Stefan had grown anxious. Like watching a pot of water, slowly coming to a boil, waiting and waiting and _waiting_ until something finally changed.

But Stefan knew heated pots boiled.

And Michael woke up.

Stefan blinked.

Michael woke up.

The kid was on the bed still, but his eyes were open slits, looking blearily about the hazy bedroom.

Stefan stifled a curse, fumbling to sit up and move closer to the bed. "Michael?" he asked, hands on the bed to get a better look at the younger boy's face. "Can you hear me?"

There was a small flinch, but no clear sign of recognition. Michael's eyes seemed to be staring at nothing, fixated on some indefinable point, almost vacant.

Swallowing, Stefan hesitated to get closer, not sure how much contact Michael would want.

"Michael?" he tried again, as gently as he could, but his voice loud enough to be heard.

Michael still didn't move, expression only vaguely perplexed.

Stefan fought the urge to panic. He'd waited so long for this, pinned so much faith on this exact moment, that he hadn't let himself consider what it would be like. A joyous reunion. An explosive argument. Something, _anything_.

The notion of _nothing _had not quite been something he'd been able to consider. The idea that Michael might not be Michael, that he might not even recognize Stefan or where he was - it just hadn't been on his radar.

And it still couldn't be. Michael hadn't survived this to be a vegetable. Stefan was sure of it.

Moving even closer, Stefan ghosted a hand over Michael's blonde fringe, before resting it lightly on the pillow above Michael head. "Come on, Misha," he said. "You're safe. You can wake up now."

Maybe it was the touch, maybe it was the tone. Maybe the words themselves had power. Or maybe Michael was just ready.

The younger boy blinked, his bicolored eyes disappearing and then opening again, this time clearer and alive. The pupils dilated, clearly responding to the light, and Michael seemed to take a startled breath.

Then Michael blinked again, flinching a little, his eyes moving frantically around the room. Stefan had taken pains to have it be familiar, but it still wasn't exactly what Michael would have remembered. He could only hope it wouldn't jar Michael too much.

After a moment of searching, Michael's eyes settled on him, meeting his gaze with a terrified expression. There was a moment between them, and Stefan could see the emotions clearly in Michael's face.

Fear. Hurt. Uncertainty.

A little boy lost. He looked far younger than his eighteen years, younger than Stefan had almost ever seen him. It was all Stefan could do not to sweep him into a hug and hold him until the doubts passed and the fear eased.

But this was Michael's moment, not Stefan's. He was calling the shots, and Stefan had to respect that.

Still, Stefan smiled, the joy barely restrained. "Hey," he said.

Michael's jaw quivered, his eyes watering. For a moment, it seemed as if he would shrink away. His body seemed ready to curl in, as if this was just all too much for him.

But Stefan held his gaze, and Michael seemed to still. With a ragged breath, he said, "Stefan."

Stefan's grin widened. "Yeah Misha. It's me."

There was something reassuring about that, and it seemed to bolster Michael ever so slightly. He nodded, rolling his head toward Stefan until his forehead brushed Stefan's forearm. The invitation was implicit.

And Stefan did not fail to respond.

Heart swelling in his chest, he moved his hand, brushing it lightly against Michael's bangs. "It's going to be okay," he promised. "It's going to be okay now."

And it was true. There would be no more lies, couldn't be any lies, and Stefan would stake everything he had left to prove that to Michael once and for all.

For his part, Michael accepted the comfort for what it was, his eyes drooping, his consciousness ebbing into sleep.

When morning came, they would be like that still. Stefan bent over, hand on his brow; Michael sleeping in the reassuring embrace.

-o-

Like with most things, Michael's recovery was exceptional.

One hour he was fumbling with basic verb conjugation, the next he was critiquing Stefan's cooking skills with a vocabulary he'd only heard in college.

Motor skills weren't far behind, and by the end of the day, Michael was more or less back to himself. He still moved with guarded movements, but it was hard for Stefan to gauge how much of that was the damage to his brain and how much was from the argument that had sent Michael away in the first place.

True to their nature, though, they avoided the issue. Michael's recovery was still far too tentative, and Stefan wasn't eager to broach the topic. Michael was seemingly even less so, but Stefan knew it was on his mind. He could see it in the haunted corners of Michael's eyes, in the unsettled movements he made right before he tried to fall asleep.

But it was more than that now. The shock of finding out that they weren't brothers was hard enough, but now Michael was dealing with a whole new list of nightmares that Stefan wasn't even sure he wanted to imagine. In the time since he'd first broken Michael out of the first Institute, Stefan had learned more than he wanted to about just what they'd done to the younger boy. The tests, the experiments. The training, and the drugs. It was the kind of trauma that would have lesser people in therapy for years, and though Michael had rebounded remarkably, Stefan knew there were parts of it that would never leave Michael.

Yet, it had been manageable. Because they'd confronted it together. They'd built beyond it.

Now, it was like being back at square one. Stefan not only had to convince Michael that they were brothers all over again, but he had to unfurl just what the Institute had put him through, and he was getting a sinking feeling that it would be harder than before.

Though Michael tried, he was less confident, more reserved. His sarcasm was benign and his topics of conversation impersonal. It was up to Stefan to make it better.

Which was exactly what he'd been trying to do. The villa was a quiet, stable place, and the only people who Stefan allowed in were Saul and Ava. He kept Michael well fed and thoroughly distracted, with games and TVs and when Michael ordered porn, he even conveniently looked the other way.

Stefan knew from experience that this was the way to start, to build trust.

But he also knew that it wasn't everything.

They had to talk about it - all of it. From the secret Stefan had kept to the outburst of powers when Michael had found out.

But first, they had to talk about the Institute.

It was the last thing Stefan really wanted to talk about. The thought of that place having its grip on Michael again - the things they might have done to him-

Well, it made him wish that he hadn't killed the good doctor quite so quickly. Hearing the details about what Michael had endured would be hell all over again.

Still, it was readily apparent in Stefan's mind that for as bad as it would be for him, it would be worse for Michael. This was about Michael, in the end, and Stefan would do anything for him.

Anything.

Even starting this conversation.

The words were heavy on his tongue for the better part of the day, right there, waiting to be said. But the timing never seemed right and Stefan could never bring himself to shatter the tentative resolve between them.

But it was a false resolve, an illusion. Stefan had learned the hard way just how dangerous those could be. It wasn't a mistake he intended to make again.

And the only way to break the ice was to say it.

"So when are you going to tell me what happened to you in there?"

Michael was at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of sugar-coated cereal. That had been a compromise food; it had the nutrients Stefan figured a growing boy might need but enough sugar to satisfy Michael's incessant cravings.

Michael stopped mid bite, freezing. Slowly, he cast a sideways glance at Stefan, regarding him with skepticism and surprise.

Stefan simply stared at him, letting the question stand.

Deliberately, Michael finished his bite, chewing carefully and swallowing purposefully. When the sugary goodness was down, he frowned a bit. "I was considering never."

It wasn't much of a surprise. Michael liked to assert his independence in some of the most inconvenient ways. Sometimes saying no was a reflex, just because he could. And given what he'd been through, Stefan had to think they were due for an upswing of such behavior to compensate for the loss of selfhood Michael had just endured.

Still, another thing Stefan had learned about Michael was that being direct was the best policy. Michael was trained to defend himself and whatever secrets he deemed fit. Though Stefan had gained much trust in the last year, things were strained at the moment and it was a whole new ball game.

Stefan didn't let the show of modest obstinance faze him. Instead, he nodded. Direct questions were good, confronting issues was important, but the best way to make Michael feel safe was to start off with some vulnerability of his own.

"Freaked me out, you know," he said. "I mean, everything I'd done to get you out the first time, and they had you _again_." He stopped, shaking his head. "I never should have let that happen."

Michael's face hardened and his fingers tightened around his spoon. "Don't," he said, his tone carrying a warning.

Stefan frowned. "Don't?"

Michael's bicolored eyes flashed up, and there was a myriad of emotions there, clouded with anger and hurt. "Don't play the sharing and caring game," he said. "It's not going to work like you want it to."

It was an effort to keep a hold on his disappointment with that one. So Michael was more observant than he'd thought to give the kid credit for. That would make it harder, since Michael wasn't in the mood to let himself be cajoled. But that just made it all the more important.

Stefan nodded slowly, looking down at the table thoughtfully. Picking at a nick in the wood, he collected a steadying breath. "I get that you don't want to talk about it," he said. "I do."

Michael's spoon hit the bowl with a clang, milk splattering on the table. When Stefan looked up in surprise, Michael's eyes were blazing. "Do you?" he asked accusingly.

Stefan swallowed slowly. The mood swing was sudden and unexpected - Michael had been the essence of self-control after his first round with the Institute. But apparently self-control had not been part of Michael's lessons this time around. "I know it wasn't exactly a picnic," he said.

At that, Michael actually scoffed. "They were putting me through tests, picking me apart like a science experiment gone wrong," he ground out, his voice a grating hiss. "They treat cadavers better than they treated me. So no, it wasn't a picnic."

All things considered, the anger was well earned, especially since Stefan knew it wasn't really directed at him for the time being. Still, hearing the venom in Michael's voice, getting his first real insight into what they'd done to him - it almost made him physically sick. "I'm sorry," he tried.

Michael shook his head, more vehemently this time, and Stefan could almost see the defenses going up, one after another in Michael's head. "Sorry for what? Sorry that they cut me open while I was still awake? Sorry that they dosed me with more drugs than I could even keep track of? Sorry that they mutated my cells while they were still in my body?" Then his expression turned cold, his jaw set hard. "Or sorry that you lied to me?"

The last words were quiet, cutting Stefan deeply. He was sorry for all of it, every last piece of it. But this wasn't the time for apologies; there would be time for that later - lots of time. The apologies Stefan owed Michael were more than words. They were actions. Starting with this, starting with opening up the cage Michael was locking himself in. If Stefan had learned anything in his life, he knew that sometimes the best made prisons are the ones made by one's own mind.

That was a fate he'd resigned himself to for ten years. It wasn't one he would let Michael fester in.

"Sorry that I hurt you," Stefan said, as calmly as I could.

Michael's eyes flashed with pain, his brow furrowing. He pushed his chair out, standing abruptly. Shaking his head, he walked toward the window. "I'm not mad at you," Michael said tersely, not turning back around.

"Then who are you mad at?" Stefan asked. "Because something pissed you off enough to make you quit early on breakfast."

Michael turned back toward him, frustration evident on his face. "Maybe I'm not hungry."

It took some effort not to roll his eyes. "Misha-"

"Michael," he snapped and turned back to the window.

That one hurt more than Stefan expected. It wasn't unwarranted, but he had hoped that given Michael's openness when he first regained consciousness that they might be able to start off at least on friendly terms. But it was clear that beneath Michael's tentative exterior, there were a whole host of issues vying for attention. It was just hard to say which one was more problematic for the kid: Stefan's well-intentioned deception or Dr. Bellucci's sick games.

All things considered, the kid was doing remarkably well. Stefan needed to keep that in perspective and tread lightly. Michael had always had special emotional needs, and now his psyche was more delicate than ever.

"Michael," Stefan repeated easily, getting to his feet. "I'm sure this is confusing-"

Michael's eyebrows went up. "Confusing? What part of it is confusing? The part where some idiot breaks me out and then lies to me for a year or the part where a somewhat better educated freak kidnaps me and tries to dissect me like a frog?"

All of the above, but it hurt too much to even make the quip. "No matter what happened, I'm here to help you."

Denial was written plainly on Michael's face. "Who I am to you? Just some stranger? Someone you pity?" Michael asked, his voice hitching toward a scream, throwing his arms out. "I'm not your brother, and I don't need your pity."

It was the other issue Stefan had been skirting, but Michael wasn't avoiding it. And that was fair, and it hurt to hear, not really because it was true, but because it wasn't.

Emotions charged, Stefan stood still. "I don't pity you," he replied. "I could never pity you. Not someone who is as strong as you."

Michael's face contorted and he laughed grotesquely. "I don't need your condescension either. Save it for your _real_ brother."

Stefan shook his head, his heart aching. "For as strong and smart as you are, you're really not picking this one up too quickly."

Michael remained stiff, lips twisted in a sneer. "Picking up what? That you're a liar?"

"That family isn't just in your DNA. We're not what our DNA says we are. We are who we choose to be, and you of all people, Misha, should know that."

That one hit close to home and Michael flinched, expression wavering. "So what, then, family is all about lies?" he asked roughly, but the anger was simmering and the hurt was plain.

Sometimes, it seemed like it. In Stefan's life, family had been a mess of lies and deception, even in the most simple things. But that wasn't what it was with Michael. They were stronger than that. "No," he said. "Family is moving to Bolivia and not needing anything but the other person. Family is breaking people out of top secret institutes and jumping in front of bullets." He swallowed, taking a step forward. He motioned to Michael. "Family is _this_. You and me, and we don't need family pictures and we don't need to share the same blood type, we just need each other."

Michael was trembling, his resolve crumbling. "But you lied to me."

"And I was wrong," Stefan said, taking another step until he was close enough to touch Michael. "Just like you'll be wrong if you throw all of this away because I made one mistake."

One mistake. One horrible mistake. But it wasn't everything. It didn't have to be everything.

"But - how?" he asked, with a shaking breath. The kid's voice was threatening to crack and Stefan could only figure sheer force of will was keeping him together.

"How what?" Stefan asked.

Michael wet his lips, lower jaw quiver. "How can you want anything to do with me after knowing what I can do," he said. He paused, taking another staggered breath. "After what I did to you."

Stefan had been prepared for the anger and the confusion. He'd been expecting the outburst at some point. But to hear the pain that girded it all - almost broke Stefan in to. That at the heart of the problem was not just the lies Stefan had told or the tests Bellucci had performed - but the harm Michael himself had accidentally inflicted when in emotional distress.

He should have seen it sooner. It made perfect sense. Michael would lash out in anger to cover the guilt and shame he didn't know what to do with. Michael had spent so much time trying to define himself as a person, not as a killer. For him to lose control - no matter what the circumstances - would be hard to deal with, especially considering the high standards the kid held himself to.

Which was why this was important. Which was why Stefan needed to get this right this time. Michael had all the appearance of a strong kid - hell, an invincible one. But he was more vulnerable than ever, and Stefan would do whatever it took to take care of him until he could take care of himself.

With a deep breath, Stefan stepped forward, holding Michael's gaze. "You had one moment of where you lost control," he said. "You'd just found out that the thing I'd told you the most often was a lie. Cut yourself some slack. It was an accident."

Michael seemed to stiffen at Stefan's proclamation. "I'm dangerous."

"And I'm a damn liar," was Stefan's easy reply. "Don't you get it? Family's not perfect. It never is."

Michael's expression was dark, uncertain. "Then what's the point?"

Stefan had to shrug, a million answers flitting through his head. But he only had to pick one. The right one: "Family is just better together. Flaws and mistakes and all."

Michael didn't flinch at that, didn't even move. His face was guarded, not quite impassive, but controlled. After a long moment, his eyes darted away, his expression puckering as he nodded. "Some flaws are hard to overcome," he said finally, his voice barely over a whisper.

"Not as hard as some mistakes," Stefan countered. "But if you let me, I'll try to make it up to you. You're my family, Michael. And no matter what you do or say, that will never change. I don't need your DNA to tell me that."

When Michael looked up, the emotions were barely held at bay. He looked inexplicably younger than usual, his entire stance withdrawn and needy. He nodded again. "I'm kind of tired," he said. "I think I'm going to go lay back down."

It was neither an acceptance or a rebuff. It was a tentative gesture, not of a quick fix, but of a willingness to try. Stefan could ask for nothing more.

With a small smile, Stefan nodded back. "That's probably a good idea," he said. "I feel like I could probably catch a few more z's myself."

Michael nodded uncertainly, a frown on his face. He hesitated for another moment. "I'll see you for lunch, though," he said.

The implicit request was as much a plea as it was a reassurance. A grin split over Stefan's face. "I'll even spring for a dessert."

Michael's attempt at a smile was weak, but there as he slipped past Stefan to his bedroom.

Watching him go, Stefan couldn't say that everything was going exactly according to plan, but Michael was still there, still with him, and as long as that was true, Stefan could hold out hope for the rest to fall into place.

-o-

While things with Michael were just beginning, Stefan could sense that other things were coming to a close. The Institute still made some headlines, updates on the dismantling process still holding some fascination with the public. But it would soon be old news, the compound gutted and the children hopefully relocated and rehabilitated. He suspected there'd be an upswing of interest if some of the charges ever went to trial, but Stefan also suspected that things would never get that far. The government may have had no choice but to shut it down, but Stefan highly doubted they wanted to parade the perpetrators before an international audience for fear of what might really come out.

Life was going on. Michael was starting to eat them out of house and home again, with Saul having to make nearly daily trips in to town just to keep them fully stocked. The other man was spending more time on the phone, and Stefan could hear him chatting up clients in the wee hours of the morning, no doubt trying to line up his next gig.

He hadn't gotten around to paying Saul just yet, but he owed Saul more than cash. He'd pony up the bills when Michael was completely mended, and he was sure that they would have to be in touch, all things considered.

Ava, however, was a different story. He didn't technically owe Ava anything, but the gratitude he felt for her role was undeniable. Sometimes when he saw her in the morning with her hair wet from showering, he was reminded of the feelings he'd felt for her before this started. She was still crazy, almost bipolar in her mood shifts, but the connection he'd felt with her had meant something.

Or _could _mean something.

With everything that had happened - the wild roller coaster ride they'd been on - there hadn't been time to dwell on it.

There was time now. But Stefan still didn't know what to make of it.

Sure, they had polite conversations. Even a few games of gin rummy before bed. But she always hesitated before she left a room and Stefan always looked for her in the doorway, just in case she was there.

That day, she was.

Standing in the open frame of his bedroom door, she was looking around, nodding. "I love what you've done with the place," she said.

Stefan glanced around absently. It was still mostly barren, decorated only with the pieces that had come with the place. He supposed it might even had some chic charm to it, but interior decorating had never been his thing. "Thank the prior owner," he said with a shrug. "They had great taste."

She grinned. "Between you and Michael, this place is going to turn out to be quite the bachelor pad."

Stefan feigned hurt. "You mean you don't think we'll be reeling in the ladies?"

Quirking an eyebrow, she said, "Between his _everything goes_ eclecticism and your _nothing is more_ minimalism, I think it's a recipe for keeping away any girl that's sane."

"You're here," Stefan pointed out.

Her eyes twinkled. "I never said I was sane."

"Then you'll fit right in," Stefan joked back readily.

But when her smile faltered at that and she fell silent for a moment, Stefan realized he'd said the wrong thing. This wasn't the typical back and forth; this wasn't going to be just another conversation. Whatever Ava had on her mind, it mattered somehow.

Stepping inside, Ava smoothed her hair absently, before wandering to the wall. She fingered one of the botanical paintings there before turning to look at Stefan abruptly. "I got the promotion I wanted," she said.

Stefan blinked. It hadn't been the news he'd expected. "Oh," he said, wracking his tired brain for something to say. "That's great."

She nodded seriously, pressing her lips together. She hesitated a moment before continuing. "They want me to start immediately," she said, almost as if in apology. "I'm leaving in the morning."

Stefan blinked again, and then he understood. This wasn't a celebratory visit. This wasn't even a social call. This was a goodbye.

"Right," he forced himself to say, unsure of what else he would be expected to say here. Goodbyes weren't his thing, mostly because he rarely let anyone stick around long enough to make it relevant. He and Ava hadn't been anything, not really, but it was still somehow hard to make the words come out.

It was Ava who broke the awkwardness, stepping forward with sudden intensity. Her eyes were wide and vulnerable. "I would have asked you, but I didn't...I didn't think..."

She didn't think Stefan would care. She didn't know where they stood. In everything, in the attraction, in the potential, they'd never had the chance to know what it was worth.

In Stefan's life, some people were worth the effort, were worth everything. He'd never given Ava that chance. The circumstances were against them from the beginning; she was a tool to him, and he'd been a stepping stone for her. The friendship had been understandable; anything more had never had a choice, not with their focuses set so much on other things as they were.

He smiled gently, reaching a hand out to touch her hair. "You shouldn't have thought," he said. "It's a great opportunity. Everything that you wanted."

There was a flicker of doubt in her eyes, but she didn't deny it. "And the Institute is gone. Michael's going to be okay," she said, holding his gaze. "It's everything you wanted, too."

It was the truth. Everything they wanted, but maybe not everything that they could have wanted.

In the bigger picture, though, neither of them had a right to regret it.

Ava smiled then, real and final. "You have my number," she said. "Just remember to update me from time to time." She shrugged, a hint of wistfulness still visible beneath her playful exterior. "In case you ever have a good story for me."

Stefan let himself laugh, nodding contentedly. "I'll be sure to do that."

She kept smiling, but looked away. When she looked up, there was a faraway glint in her eyes. "Then I guess I should go," she said. "Packing and all."

"Yeah," Stefan said. "Packing and all."

Ava collected herself, then stuck her hand out. "So this is goodbye then."

Stefan hesitated only a second before he took her hand, tucking the smaller fingers in his own. The spark was still there, just waiting for a breath of air that would never come.

He squeeze once, brief and firm, before letting it go. "Yeah," he agreed. "I guess this is goodbye."

And with that, she offered Stefan one last smile before she was out the door and gone.

-o-

There was much time to think.

In some ways, it reminded him of his time at the Institute. Much of his time had been filled with classes or instruction, but when there was no need for them, thinking had been the only recourse for entertainment.

But the thinking here was different. The thoughts flowed easier, had happier destinations and real potential for action. The room Stefan had prepared was almost better than the one back at the apartment, and Michael had spent some time rearranging the things to just the right level of discord for his enjoyment.

It was funny, how many things in that room had such powerful memories. The things he had amassed in a short year were impressive, and the concept of ownership was still intoxicating to him. He liked to think back on every object, what it meant, where he got it. He could remember the smell of the money as it changed hands, the snide comment Stefan had made when he saw each piece.

He liked that. It was solidifying. Grounding. Even though Dr. Bellucci was gone and Wendy was dead, sometimes Michael still needed to remember that it was really over.

That wasn't hard, at least not on a simple level. After all, Michael had a good memory and could easily account for most of the years of his life. Some of it had blurred together, lost in the sterile walls of the Institute, but the idea was clear enough. True, his origins were vague, but he remembered the plain white walls at the Institute. He remembered that his first room was the same as his last: bare, nondescript, and empty.

He had roommates, fellow prisoners. Some graduated. Some disappeared. He neither liked them nor felt connected to them. John was the only one who had made him feel anything, but John was gone.

Michael remembered that, but he didn't often choose to remember all the circumstances. Knowing that John had died, knowing that Peter after him had died, too, they were tragedies he didn't know how to comprehend. Wrongs he didn't know how to make sense of.

Still, Michael remembered. He remembered living, day after day. He remembered watching movies and walking through shopping malls only partially aware, like being a goldfish looking out through water and glass at a hazy version of reality. Enticing and fascinating, but he'd always somewhat assumed that he'd die if he ever left, dry up and shrivel, just like a fish out of water.

He remembered that Jericho used to talk to him in gentle, soothing tones. He used to praise Michael's progress, chide his faults. "We are family, you know," he used to remind Michael. "I am more your father than anyone else. You must trust me when I tell you that I am doing this for your own good."

And who was Michael to contradict? Jericho had created him, and the only examples he knew of family were on movies and brief exchanges in malls. Michael could only conclude that family was as meaningless as the rest of life, intended for others who were born free.

But Michael also remembered the night Stefan broke in. It had been perplexing and unnerving, and each time he thought it might be a test, Stefan surprised him. Surprised him by protecting him, feeding him, sheltering him, being willing to die for him.

That was why when Stefan told him they were family, even though Michael remembered the truth, he wanted to believe him anyway. His life had always been one of simple truths and certain inevitabilities. With Stefan, though, there were beautiful lies and awakening falsehoods. It seemed to be a logical contradiction that falsity could give way to truth, but as Michael lived and breathed free air, he was beginning to wonder if contradiction was more common than he had been led to believe.

Movies had happy endings. The Institute had simple procedures. Predictable outcomes. Apparent foreshadowing.

Life was not a movie. Reality was not a shopping mall. The Institute was not his home. Jericho had never been his family.

Before, he had rejected his memories and replaced them with a well-intentioned lie because he had believed it was necessary, that he could not hold the real memories of his past with the dream of family that Stefan promised.

He had been wrong.

It was a simple revelation, one that Michael took in by degrees during his recovery. Life was easy at the villa, free of expectations and confinements. There was fresh air, open spaces, privacy. He slept when he wanted. He showered at will. He could eat at any time of the day or night, and often did.

Stefan did not leave. He granted Michael space, but it was apparent to Michael that the other man was never far. A room away. Two at most. At the slightest inclination, Stefan would be there.

They shared no DNA, and it was true, Stefan had lied to him on one of the most important issues between them. And it changed everything.

Yet, it changed nothing.

It changed _nothing_.

Sometimes the simplest answer was right. Sometimes reality was nothing more than a string of contradicting ideas and feelings all coming together to tell him the exact same thing: Stefan was still his brother. He could trust Stefan by the lies he told him and he could prove that brotherhood by the DNA that didn't match. Because even with these factors, even with all that worked against them, they were still connected, completely and irrevocably, and there was nothing Michael could do to ever change that.

Assuming, of course, he ever wanted to try.

There were still things Michael didn't know, many things he hadn't figured out, but he knew this one thing beyond all else: he didn't want to try to change that. Not now. Not ever. And that was a truth Michael could hold to, even in his doubts and weaknesses, and trust that it would carry him through to the other side.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: And this is the end of it :) I'm very thankful to those who have read and reviewed. It's good to know there are others out there who love these characters as much as I do. Now we'll just have to see what really happens to them in the next book! Again, thanks to geminigrl11 for the beta'ing skills.

EPILOGUE

Endings were hard.

In truth, Stefan didn't really have much experience with them. So much of his life had been holding on and holding on tighter that the difficult art of letting go was something he was rather inexperienced with.

But the last year had been a crash course in the subject. Saying goodbye to Lukas, once and for all. Accepting his brother's death had meant the end of a ten year quest, and there were times when it still hurt to think about Lukas still and bloody on the beach that night so long ago.

Still. Even if his love for Lukas would never changed - never abate - his quest to find his brother was one he'd put to rest. He'd said his goodbye to Lukas the best he could, and started the difficult task of moving on.

One ending was something, but it didn't make him better at it.

Technically, saying goodbye to Saul wasn't the same thing, not at all. Saul was leaving on his own terms, and he was fine and fit, his pocket well padded thanks to the funds Stefan had procured from his father's hefty South American bank account. This was to be expected. Saul had a life, after all. A job and acquaintances, if not friends. He'd given more than Stefan had a right to ask for, so it wasn't like he was about to begrudge the guy the chance to finally go home.

It was still hard.

Having Saul around had gotten sort of comfortable, familiar. He was used to Saul's jokes, learned a taste for Saul's alcohol. And though things were getting better with Michael, it was still nice to have someone there as a buffer as Michael came to terms with everything that had happened.

"You look like you might cry, Smirnoff," Saul said with a smirk, as he put another bag by the door. He grinned at Stefan. "And here I thought you were just a heartless bastard."

Hard, but not impossible.

Stefan snorted, taking the bait for the olive branch that it was. He was leaned against the arm of a chair, arms crossed over his chest, watching as Saul packed the last of his things. "I just can't believe you're finally getting out of our hair," he said. "I thought you might try to stick around and milk whatever you could."

Saul shrugged. "Your charming hospitality isn't worth the indefinite handouts," he said.

"We gave you the master bedroom," Stefan countered.

Saul rubbed at his neck. "Yes, and the mosquitos that come with it," he groused.

Stefan rolled his eyes. "It'll make for a good story for the ladies back in Florida," he said.

At that, Saul's expression turned salacious. "As if I need anymore good stories," he said. "I can get them with one look alone."

Stefan had to scoff. "Then I wouldn't dream of keeping you here," he said, getting to his feet. He held out his hand. "Though you have had your moments."

Eyeing the hand for a moment, Saul took it firmly, giving it a shake. "You, too, Smirnoff," he said. "I can always count of you for one hell of a ride."

Stefan released the grip, smiling a little. "You make one hell of a wing man."

Saul raised his eyebrows. "You took down an unarmed doctor," he said. "I'm the one who handled the armed guards, if you'll recall."

Stefan groaned. "Yes, yes, the depths of your heroics cannot be fully exhausted."

Straightening a bit, Saul's smile was cocky. "As long as you don't forget it," he said. Then he glanced to the couch, where Michael was seated.

The kid had been watching Saul's departure as well, though with decidedly more reserve. Stefan didn't know if this was a good or bad sign - he didn't want the kid to be thrown off by Saul's departure any more than he wanted to keep Saul longer than he already had.

"Good seeing you again, kid," Saul said, and his tone was gentler somehow. "I'm going to trust you to stay out of trouble."

Michael nodded slightly. "No more getting kidnapped by psychotic scientists," he confirmed. "I think I can handle that."

Saul smiled. "And if Smirnoff here ever gives you any grief, you just give me a call," he said.

Stefan scoffed. "I'm not sure you're the kind of help he needs."

Saul quirked an eyebrow. "I am skilled in many things," he said. "Most of which, you can only imagine."

"Yet really don't want to," Stefan said.

Saul shrugged. "Your loss."

"I think we'll survive," Stefan said.

With a nod, Saul said, "Yeah, I imagine you will." He took a breath, nodding once again. "So, next time you need some information..."

"I'll know who to call," Stefan promised.

"Stay safe," Saul said, leaning over to pick up his bags.

"You know me," Stefan said.

Slinging one bag over his shoulder and holding the other in his hand, Saul rolled his eyes. "That's my point."

"You'd better go before you miss your flight," Stefan said, moving to the door. He opened it. "Your taxi's waiting."

At that, Saul grimaced. "Don't remind me," he said. "You'd think you could at least spring for a limo."

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out," Stefan said with a smirk as Saul shuffled through.

"You're lucky I tolerate you," Saul said from the stoop.

"You're lucky I pay you," Stefan shot back.

Saul laughed a little and, with a breath, nodded. "See you soon, Smirnoff."

"Not too soon, Scozinsky."

Saul's expression was almost thoughtful before it widened into a grin. "But soon enough."

With that, he made his way down the steps, moving toward the end of the lane where his taxi was waiting. Saul watched until he climbed inside, keeping the door open until the taxi went into gear and pulled away.

When the door was closed behind him, Stefan sighed, hand on the knob for a moment. Saul's departure seemed final, definitive. Not of the end of a friendship, but the necessary closure of the adventure they'd been through. Now it was time to move on. Now it was time to see where all the pieces were fallen and figure out where they were going to go from here.

Michael and him.

Letting go, Stefan straightened, turning to look at Michael-

Who was nowhere to be found.

Stefan's stomach lurched. It was not a positive sign.

It wasn't like Michael had gone far, but the fact that he hadn't stayed to talk seemed indicative of just how far they had left to go. Still, this was something they couldn't avoid forever, and he wanted to make sure that Michael was truly okay with Saul's departure. He had Saul's number, and if the kid needed a third wheel around for a while, he wouldn't hesitate to call anymore than Saul would hesitate to come back.

With a sigh, Stefan peeked into the kitchen, surprised to find it absent. Though Michael was slow to recover in other ways, his appetite had already returned with a vengeance.

Curious, Stefan poked his head into the den before looking out onto the veranda.

That was where he found Michael, curled up on one of the chairs, looking out over the forest.

It was clear that Anatoly had chosen the property because it was remote and well secluded. The fact that it was on a beautiful piece of land was just an extra perk, and Stefan liked that it made for a rich backdrop during Michael's recovery. The younger boy did seem to enjoy the views, spending long stretches of time just staring out at the trees, searching for things Stefan could never quite figure out.

Tentative, Stefan stepped out. The weather was characteristically warm, but since the sun was still out, the bugs were not quite in full force just yet. Carefully, Stefan made sure his footsteps were clear and discernible, exhaling deeply as he settled into a wicker chair across from Michael.

For a moment, they sat like that, both watching the forest. The trees always seemed vaguely alive, though Stefan rarely caught a glimpse of any wildlife. There was a continually hum of insects, punctuated by the definitive songs of birds Stefan couldn't identify.

Sometimes, this seemed to be the hardest part. Stefan could organize rescue missions, plot uncanny operations, but the sitting, the waiting, the being _still _- it was still something he struggled with.

But for Michael, he had to learn. For Michael, he had to try.

"I'm sorry," Michael said suddenly.

Of all the things Stefan had expected - anger, fear, sadness confusion - an apology hadn't even made the list. "What do you have to be sorry about? I already told you, the power surge or whatever wasn't your fault."

"No, I know," Michael said. "I mean, I am sorry about that, but that's not what I'm talking about now."

Stefan couldn't come up with anything. "Then I don't think I understand."

Michael swallowed, then looked up, his expression curious and sympathetic. "I'm sorry that your brother died."

It was so unexpected that it hit Stefan like a sucker punch. There was an inexplicable sting of tears in his eyes, and Stefan found that he didn't know what to say.

Michael blinked rapidly, seeming to work to hold himself together. "You must have loved him very much," he said. "To go through all the trouble you did, looking for him and breaking me out when you thought I was him. No one has ever loved me that much, and I. I...liked believing that maybe someone did."

And if Stefan's heart wasn't shattered before, that just about did him in. He swore. "Misha, that's not true."

"No, it is," Michael said, and he shrugged stiffly. "I mean, it was a fantasy and I always knew it. I was raised in the Institute. I remember every long day of my life there, every class I had to take, every test I was forced to pass. But when I looked at the pictures, when I saw the way you loved Lukas, I wanted it to be true. I was lying just as much as you were."

Stefan's heart was in his throat now, stomach twisting in real physical pain. "I wanted you to have it," he said. "That's why I didn't tell you the truth. I wanted it to be true, too."

Michael's looked was pained, and he nodded, head ducking down for a moment. When he looked up again, his eyes were glistening with unshed tears. "I think maybe you were right."

"Right?" Stefan asked. "About what?"

"What you told me about family the other day," he explained slowly. "That it's not DNA that defines it."

Stefan nodded. "I meant it."

Michael nodded, not responding for a moment. He fiddled with a piece of wayward wicker on the chair, not looking up when he continued. "I should have died, you know."

Stefan had to snort at that. He hadn't told Michael everything - not about the seizures and the blood from his ears and nose, but the kid still knew the long and short of it. "It's not the first time I've been thankful for those freaky ass chimera genes you have."

Michael didn't laugh at the joke, though. Instead, he kept picking at the wicker, face taut with thought. "I looked at the scans the doctor left," he said.

Stefan's stomach churned again. He would have to throw those out. It was a reminder neither of them needed. "They don't mean anything, Misha."

"No, they do," Michael said, pulling a piece of wicker free. He held it in his fingers, turning it carefully. "Injuries to the brain are not like other injuries. Some healing can occur, but serious damage is often irreparable. Brain death is considered to be a medical point of no return. I was essentially dead when you brought me here."

Feeling numb, Stefan's vision tunneled a bit. The memory was fresh, raw. Watching twenty-four hours slip by. Forty-eight and knowing what it was to have hope slip away right in front of him.

Michael flicked the wicker away, watching as it skittered across the patio. "Even chimeras can die. I've been doing my reading, and I know there are some things we can't recover from. I never should have woken up."

Stefan shook his head. "Then how do you explain it?"

Michael looked up finally, and his gaze was sure, almost peaceful. "If it wasn't my enhanced healing abilities, then the only other factor I can consider is you. I don't remember much, but I remember you. I remember you were there. I remember that even after everything I'd done to you, everything I _wasn't_, you still came back for me. You fought for me. So I did the only thing I could and fought for you, too."

The truth of it made Stefan's chest almost ache. The thing Stefan sometimes forgot, the part of family he sometimes overlooked, was that it was a two-way street. That meant the good and the bad, the giving and the receiving.

He fought for Michael.

So why was it so hard to understand that sometimes Michael fought for him?

It was hard to accept, because it was his place to protect Michael - always. Even if the kid rejected him, Stefan would never stop looking out for him. It would just make it harder.

And this family thing that Stefan wanted to preserve, that he tried to create for Michael - well, it looked like the kid had figured it out, one way or another.

Stefan swallowed hard, looking at his hands for a long moment. Then he looked up again, something of a smile hanging crookedly over his face. "Thank you," he said.

Michael's posture stiffened, and he shook his head. "I still almost killed you."

Stefan had to laugh. "For a kid who seems to know everything, you're pretty stupid about this one."

But Michael was resolute. "I almost killed you," he said. "I know you say it doesn't matter, but it does. It matters a lot. I don't know how to trust myself to let you close to me." His eyes darted away. "No matter how much I may want to."

And there was the crux of it, and why all the pain was something Stefan could easily take. For as much as this hurt Stefan, it still hurt Michael worse.

With a breath, Stefan straightened himself. "Then trust me," he said, looking at Michael steadily.

The words almost made Michael flinch, and he seemed to want to look away, but Stefan's unrelenting gaze held him fast.

"Because I trust you. Completely. With my life," he said, words strong and sure, stilling every protest he knew Michael still harbored. "And if you trust me to fight to come back to me, then trust me until you're able to trust yourself."

Michael's expression seemed uncertain, but then he nodded. Once, briefly, before looking away. He wet his lips with a shuddering breath, letting his eyes close. "I'm tired," he said, his voice no more than a whisper.

Getting to his feet, Stefan walked closer, putting a hand on Michael's arm. "Then get some rest," he advised gently.

Michael's arm felt stiff under his touch, but he did not try to dislodge it. Finally, he nodded again.

With a squeeze, Stefan lingered only for a moment more, before going back inside. He paused, glancing back, watching as Michael sat in the seat, eyes closed to the forest. He watched for a moment more as Michael's breathing slowly evened out, the backdrop of the forest soothing away the rest of the doubts and regrets for now.

-o-

Life was about the anticlimactic moments. The day to day struggle of living, growing, healing. Michael's physical rebound was a natural thing, and soon he was able to run laps around Stefan during morning exercise - quite literally.

Of course, Stefan tolerated the embarrassment of being shown up by a skinny kid with his usual grace - punctuated with coarse epithets and darkened scowls. It was worth it, though, to see the kid smile a little with muted glee. Michael always did enjoy besting Stefan, and it was good to see that, at least, hadn't changed.

Beyond workouts, things were still a bit strained, but improving. They fell into a rhythm, waking and sleeping, watching TV and reading books, eating and eating and eating. Even Zilla was finding a way to make his little ratty ass feel at home, finding new nooks and crannies to hoard Stefan's stuff. Part of Stefan wished he'd left the smelly thing back in their old apartment, but seeing Michael's contented smile when the ferret snuggled down for a nap on his stomach was worth having half his socks absconded for one of its many nests.

They didn't talk about the big things more than they had to, but they did start talking again. Michael being plying him with obscure facts about the forest and how certain beetles actually had more nutrients than a full-course meal. He even redecorated his room, shifting the posters in a manner that defied logic and lining up his knickknacks with a cluttered approach that would have made an interior designer quiver with her fabric swatches.

Michael smiled more, started making himself at home. There was a slow and steady acceptance that this was their home, this was their life, this was their family.

Days drifted into weeks, weeks into a month. Michael was looking into classes and had found a list of bars in the closest town that might even hire Stefan with his limited Spanish skills. The idea of letting Michael out of the house was still a little hard to swallow, but Michael had been imprisoned enough in his short life, and Stefan would never contribute if he could help it.

So if that meant working a crap-ass job just to keep an eye on the kid, well, then Stefan could handle the humiliation.

Because things were good. Not great, but good. And after everything that had happened, _good_ was more than good enough for Stefan.

So it was a surprise the night Michael came out of his room with a serious expression on his face.

Stefan had been typing up a resume, something partly true and mostly fiction, based on the newest alias they were living under. If he was going to get a job, he needed these things, and he wanted to get something legit, even if none of his credentials actually were.

Though things were improving, Stefan still knew that Michael needed a push to start most conversations. Even though Stefan wasn't sure this was one he particularly wanted to have, he would give this kid anything he could - and then some.

"You look stressed," he commented. "Can't decide if you should put Kermit back over your bed or not? I was thinking, maybe we should find you a pin up girl for that spot. Wouldn't help your hormones any, but it'd be a bit more normal."

The joke was coarse and over the top, which was the point. As far as Stefan could tell, the more idiotic he sounded upfront, the easier it was for Michael to say anything and feel less conspicuous afterward.

But Michael didn't seem to be going for the jokes that night. Instead, the kid's brow was furrowed, his mouth frowning just a little.

"I think you should have this," he said, holding his hand out.

Stefan's joking demeanor faded and he looked at Michael's outstretched hand. It was the picture, the one of Lukas and Stefan at their last Christmas together. Stefan's heart panged the memory then ached again when he realized that Michael was giving it back to him.

"This isn't mine," he said simply.

Heart in his throat, Stefan didn't know what part was worse - that Michael was giving it back to him or that he'd never done Lukas justice. "Misha-" Stefan said.

Michael just shook his head. "I don't need it anymore," he said. "I mean, not like you do. It's your memory of Lukas. I want you to have that. It's important to you."

The kid knew how to go for the jugular. Stefan swallowed painfully, almost afraid to go on, but knowing he had to. It was time to make amends - real ones. "I don't mean to belabor the point, but you're important to me, too," he reminded Michael.

Michael gave him a cocked half grin. "Yes, but you don't need a picture to remember me by. You'll be stuck with me every day for the rest of your life."

Stefan's face split into a smile. He reached out, rustling Michael hair. "Damn, I think maybe I should take a picture. It'll cost me less money in the long run."

Michael ducked away playfully, giving a patented little brother scowl. "Careful with the hair," he squawked.

"Ah, what?" Stefan asked mockingly, reaching for the hair again. "It's getting too long anyway."

"I like it," Michael protested, stepping clear of Stefan's reach and using one hand to put the mop back into some semblance of what Michael deemed _order_. "Though I'm going to have to get some more blonde dye soon."

Stefan squinted at it, considering the observation. "You know, we're not really on the run anymore," he said slowly. "You can let it go brown again."

Michael looked surprised. "But...I thought..."

They'd both thought. Turning Michael into a blonde had been the most natural thing in the world, and Michael had accepted it just as readily as Stefan had doled it out. It was a comforting part of the illusion, a visual marker that made Michael into the little brother he wasn't.

But Stefan didn't want Michael to be the little brother he'd lost. He wanted Michael to be the little brother he'd found. Complete with a sugar fetish, bad taste, horny pickup lines, and brown hair.

"The brown is you," Stefan said, shrugging a bit. "Besides, the blonde makes you look too much like a flake. You're attracting all the wrong kind of girls."

"Hmm," Michael said, contemplatively. "So what's your excuse?"

"I'm too busy keeping you out of trouble to mind my own issues," Stefan said.

Michael looked nonplussed at that, frowning a little. "That's really the best excuse you have?"

Stefan scowled. "You need better?"

He shrugged a little. "I just might have expected more," he said. "Even from you."

"Do I need to remind you who supports who around here?"

Michael looked around the room skeptically. "I'm guessing your father," he said. "I saw your paychecks back in La Paz."

"You think you see a lot of things, don't you?" Stefan asked, irritably as he could. Not because he was really annoyed, but because this was their thing. This was what they had, a back and forth, a smart ass and a hard ass - what made them _them_.

Michael's expression beamed smugly. "More than you think."

Stefan grunted. "But not as much as you'd like to think."

Before Michael could come up with an undoubtedly clever response, Stefan launched himself off the chair, throwing himself at Michael full force. Michael's reflexes were quick enough to soften the impact, but they still tumbled hard toward the living room, toppling over the edge of the couch.

They landed in a twisted pile, but Stefan had the obvious advantage. Arm wrapped around Michael, he used his free hand to rub a hard noogie into the darkened mop of hair.

Michael squirmed, squirreling as best he could, but his lanky body was no match for Stefan's optimized grip.

Bearing down, Stefan grinned. "You like to reconsider your position?"

The humor in Michael's voice was evident. "Not for a second."

Stefan grinned, rubbing again with new strength. "Yeah," he agreed. "Me neither."


End file.
